Harry Potter and the Hallowed Lady
by TrunkMonkey
Summary: In his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry gains control of all three of the Deathly Hallows. As the master of Death herself, Harry finds himself aided by a willing and powerful servant who radically alters the path he carves through history.
1. Chapter 1

**:Public service announcement:**

Hey guys, this is Buttholepantsmcgee here! A friend of mine has written an awesome story but she's not a part of the website. She gave me permission to share this, and she and I hope you'll enjoy the read! If you have any feedback, don't hesitate to comment! If you like her writing, be sure to check out her other websites in my bio! She's a talented artist and writer, and often times she uses her skills side by side to create awesome stories and visual characters!

She very well may have written that very note for me because I have no idea what I'm doing.

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"And now for our fourth and final champion! Harry Potter of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be facing the Hungarian Horntail!"

Every corner of the arena was filled with Dumbledore's magically-amplified voice, but Harry barely heard him. Even the roar of the crowd fell on deaf ears, for Harry couldn't hear anything aside from the pounding of his own heart and the sound of his ragged breathing. He clambered over the rocks that barred his path, shielding his eyes from the midday sun with the flat of his hand.

Harry Potter was about to steal an egg from a dragon.

The battleground was quiet, but the terrain showed signs of the previous champion's struggles. Black marks scorched the earth where the flames of the terrible creatures had scoured the earth. Deep gouges were torn into more than one boulder, and Harry couldn't help but think about what those scythe-like claws might do to his own flesh. It was an image that kept intruding on his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to banish it.

A great gout of flame shot up from over a ridge; Harry's foe had shown itself. Even at that distance, Harry could feel the terrible heat of the dragon's flame pinking the skin on his face. One misstep, and that flame would incinerate him before he even had time to register the fact that he was dead - somehow, that thought brought a strange comfort to Harry. Squaring his jaw, the young wizard held his wand aloft.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry felt his magic reach out, find its target; now he simply had to wait.

"Come here and fight me wizardling, I will roast your flesh and crack your bones!" A guttural, hissing voice boomed out from over the ridge.

Could dragons talk? Harry honestly didn't know.

"Just...give me a minute," Harry shouted back, his eyes anxiously peering to his right. Any minute, now…

Harry's time had run out, however. With an ear-splitting roar, the Horntail mounted the ridge that had separated them; it's triangular, horned head peered at Harry with ancient yellowed eyes that were filled with nothing but hate and malice. It's claws dug deep furrows into the stone as it hauled its scaly body over the ridge and advanced menacingly on the boy wizard.

"There you are," the great beast hissed. "Awfully young, but no matter. Tastes just the same."

"Wait!" Harry hissed. "I taste dreadful, really!"

To Harry's utter surprise, he had spoken parseltongue. Both boy and beast paused, peering intently at each other. The dragon cocked its head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious hound - Harry would have laughed, if he hadn't been terrified.

"The wizardling speaks a civilized tongue?" The creature's great head loomed closer, and Harry saw something new sparkling in those eyes; curiosity. "Who are you, boy? Meat with a name tastes so much sweeter in my experience."

"Harry," Harry was backing up slowly, but he knew that he had nowhere to go. "My name is Harry Potter."

"Are you really? A name with power, even among dragons." The horntail lifted its snout and sniffed at the air. "I thought you'd be taller."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, not really knowing what else to say. "Listen, do you think I can grab that egg from you?"

"The egg?" The dragon sniffed again and cast a careless glance over its spined shoulder. It was still stalking towards Harry, that wicked tail lashing out behind it like a whip. "I could care less."

"Brilliant," Harry said, edging further away from the massive beast. "So, I'll just…"

"Oh, I'm afraid not." Harry swore that a wicked grin split the creature's face. "I don't care about the egg - but I don't like being captured. Placed in a cage so small I can barely unfurl my wings. Poked, prodded, studied, put on display, gawked at, and now THIS!"

The creature's voice had risen to a terrible roar, and the horntail reared back on its hind legs. Those massive wings unfurled, blotting out the sun from Harry's view - briefly, he wondered if it might be the last time he saw the sun. But then it crashed back down onto its forelegs, and now its face was mere inches from Harry's.

"No, boy - you're not going anywhere. The hated wizards are tearing themselves apart with this latest war, and you might be the only one who can stop it. If I kill you…" the dragon's grin widened. Harry could see flames dancing in its throat. "Die well, Harry Potter. May the rest of your kind die with you."

Harry felt the great heat roiling from the dragon's maw before he saw any flames; he turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was certain that the stench of the horntail's breath would be the last thing he experienced. Just as he had accepted his fate, he felt something impact his hand. Something long and slender, smooth and polished wood beneath his trembling fingers.

Instinct took over. Harry mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground just as the white-hot pillar of flame erupted from the creature's mouth. Harry risked a glance over his shoulder to see the dragon beating its wings in a furious attempt to meet him in the air; the rock that Harry had been standing on just moments ago had been reduced to a molten slag pile.

He might have been defenseless on the ground, but in the air Harry had a fighting chance. With the wind whipping through his hair and robes, the young Hogwarts champion soared upwards, clinging to his broom as it carried him away from certain death. He could feel the heat of the dragon's fire on his heels, even through the leather soles his boots. Harry dared another look over his shoulder; the dragon was only a few yards behind, but suddenly it jerked in midair and fell towards the earth.

The creature had reached the end of it's chain, and the heavy iron yanked the unfortunate beast back down to the earth. With a deafening roar the horntail plummeted, beating its wings furiously. It managed to land with some grace, spitting flame in its fury.

"We don't need to do this for their amusement!" Harry yelled; he hoped the dragon could hear him. "Just give me the egg and this will be over."

"Oh, give you the egg and return to my cage?" The dragon spat the words like a curse. "To the 'sanctuary' where your kind has kept me enslaved for a hundred years? I would rather die, Potter."

"You don't have to go back to that sanctuary," Harry had never realized how difficult shouting in parseltongue really was. "I can help you get free."

If the dragon considered his offer, or if it had even heard him, it didn't show it. Another pillar of flame erupted from the beast's maw, accompanied by a throaty roar that split the air. Harry could hear the crowd gasp collectively, but he didn't have time to pay attention to that. His attention was entirely absorbed with maneuvering his broomstick around the searing flames that seemed to block his passage at every turn. Like a frantic needle pulling a thread through a tattered cloak, Harry weaved around the deadly gouts of flame. He had lost sight of the egg completely; his skills were being pushed to their limit simply staying alive.

Then, he saw it; a glint of gold, framed by fire. Harry hunkered down on his broom and gave it all he had, zipping beneath the flames. Intense heat and wind buffeted him from all directions, and for a moment Harry thought that he had taken his last risk. Thankfully, it was over in an instant, and he popped out of the incinerator into the blessedly cool air with the golden egg square in his sights; flames danced on the sleeve of his robe as he emerged from the inferno.

Harry leaned precariously from his broom, reaching his hand out for his prize. Just like going for the snitch, he told himself. When he finally laid his hands on it, he cried out and nearly dropped it; the thing must have weighed fifteen pounds, and the force of the impact had nearly broken his arm. He only just managed to hang onto it, and he cradled it close to his body as he zipped away. He almost made it to safety.

It all came crashing down, quite literally, with a single swipe of the dragon's scythe-like claws. Harry felt the rear end of his Firebolt kick out from behind him, and only a moment later he hit the ground with an impact that knocked the wind out of him. He struggled helplessly for a moment, desperately trying to get back on his feet; he knew that the Horntail would waste no time in capitalizing on his vulnerability.

"Time to die, Harry." The creature was there, slowly stalking towards the boy with that same wicked grin on its reptilian face.

"You can't!" Harry shouted. He was grasping at straws again, hoping that his words would succeed where his skill had failed. "You said, if I die no one can win this war. Do you think things for you will be better under the Dark Lord?"

The dragon laughed. It was a raspy, hoarse sound; wholly inhuman, yet somehow Harry instinctively recognized it for what it was.

"The Dark Lord," it echoed, a mocking lilt to its hissing tone. "You don't even know what that means."

"It's Voldemort," Harry said the name fearlessly, as always.

"Oh?" The dragon laughed again, looming closer with every heartbeat. "Such a clever whelp, you've got it all figured out."

The mocking laughter continued, and despite his peril Harry couldn't help but pry.

"Who, then? Who is the Dark Lord if not Voldemort?"

"Ah, but I can't just tell you." The Horntail was circling around, lashing that wicked tail behind it. "A dragon trades in secrets like you wizards trade those gaudy golden coins of yours; nothing is free, Potter."

"I'll help you," Harry insisted, taking a bold step forwards. "I can make sure you never have to go back to that sanctuary or live in a cage ever again."

"Lies!" The dragon spat the word with an evil hiss, whipping its tail furiously; yet despite its ire Harry could see that it was intrigued by the way it paused in its tracks. "You couldn't do such a thing, wizardling."

"I can," Harry insisted. "I'm Harry Potter, I'm a Triwizard champion - they'll listen to me. I do this for you, and you tell me your secret."

For the first time, the Dragon seemed unsure of itself; murder incarnate waited mere feet from the young wizard, fully capable of eradicating him in a single breath, yet it simply stood and pondered. Finally, it lowered its head, carefully meeting Harry's gaze with its glimmering golden eyes.

"We have a deal, boy. But if you fail, I will kill you - that's a promise."

"Alright - you're going to have to trust me." Harry took his wand in his hand and scrounged up every ounce of strength he had; he wasn't even sure if this was going to work. "DIMINUENDO!"

The silvery-white energy of Harry's spell struck the dragon square in the shimmering black scales of its chest; he could see the shock in the dragon's eyes, but it did nothing. Perhaps it had chosen to put its faith in the boy, or perhaps it was simply too surprised to act, but as the spell took effect the great Hungarian Horntail simply stood by and let it happen.

To Harry's great relief, the spell seemed to be working; the vast wyrm was shrinking. Once the size of a London city bus, it had assumed the modest dimensions of a skip before long. When it finally stopped shrinking, the dragon was the size of a mere housecat; Harry held out a trembling hand. He winced as the creature clawed its way up his arm and came to rest on his shoulder.

"This had better work, Potter." Even at its diminished size, Harry could feel the heat of its breath as the dragon hissed in his ear.

"Harry - " Dumbledore's amplified voice groped for words. "Harry Potter has done it! The dragon is defeated, and he has the egg!"

The arena erupted into cheers. No one had ever seen anything like it; Harry would learn later that no one, not even another parseltongue, had ever spoken to a dragon and lived to tell the tale. People swarmed the arena, crowding in an excited circle around him and the egg, and of course - the dragon. None dared venture too close, however. The dragon on his shoulder may have been reduced in size, but a burst of flame from its shrunken maw ensured that the onlookers were aware that it was just as deadly.

"Blimey, Potter!" Harry recognized the voice of Charlie Weasley, and he turned to find Ron's older brother trotting towards him. "How did you - what did - blimey. You're gonna have to tell me all about that one over a cup of tea."

"Excellent work Harry, very well done indeed." The crowd parted to admit Dumbledore, with Professor McGonagall right on his heels. The legendary wizard seemed to have regained his composure and beamed at Harry over his spectacles with his usual serene countenance.

"Thank you, sir." Harry bobbed his head; he was still processing all that had happened.

"Well," Charlie said briskly, donning a pair of thick leather gloves. "We'd better get this little lady back to her pen. She's due back at the sanctuary tomorrow."

"Ouch," Harry winced as the horntail dug its claws into his shoulder, and he took a step back from Charlie. "Actually, she has to stay with me."

"I think not, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was grave as he regarded Harry carefully over his half-moon spectacles. "Dragons are dangerous creatures, and cunning killers. There's a reason they were nearly hunted to extinction all those years ago. It's best to leave her with the experts."

"Headmaster - please. I made a promise." Harry's eyes shifted between Dumbledore and McGonagall, hoping that one of them might be swayed to his side. He knew before she had even spoken that he had found an ally in Minerva McGonagall.

"Perhaps," she began carefully, regarding the dragon askance. "Perhaps we might allow Potter to keep it for a limited time - a trial, of sorts. She seems docile enough, there on his shoulder, and I will personally inspect the shrinking charm weekly for any signs of unraveling. A promise is a promise, Albus - you were once in Gryffindor too, or have you forgotten?"

Even the great Dumbledore was not immune from a scolding from Professor McGonagall, or so it would seem. The headmaster pursed his lips and seemed to consider for a very long time indeed, before he finally nodded once slowly.

"Very well," he acquiesced at last. "But Harry - heed my warning. Dragons are very intelligent, but their hearts are wild. They do not understand friendship or love as we do."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I'll bear that in mind." Harry could hardly believe his luck.

The crowd swept them away, back to the castle and the feast that was planned to follow the event; as Harry endured the countless back-slaps and congratulations, a thought occurred to him.

"What should I call you?" He peered at the diminutive dragon's serpentine face. "I can't just call you 'dragon' all the time."

"I shan't give you my true name," The dragon sniffed. "After all, we just met. You may call me Sarchanie."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Everyone wanted to see the dragon, everyone wanted to see the egg, and everyone wanted to see him; people mobbed him wherever he went. He didn't have time to speak to his new friend in private, and it was all he could do to keep people from prodding and poking her incessantly. Most learned to keep their hands to themselves after a few minor burns and bites, but Harry was afraid that if she caused too much trouble they would take her away.

The egg, for all the trouble he had gone through to acquire it, was apparently worthless. There was nothing inside, and when Harry opened it the thing emitted the most awful screech he had ever heard. No one, not even Hermione, seemed to know what it meant. No one could even bear to listen to it for more than a few seconds. He had stowed it in his trunk, a riddle for another day.

It was well past midnight before Harry finally managed to peel away from the others and snatch some time alone with the shrunken dragon he had apparently adopted. The dragon had proved surprisingly good-natured through all the festivities; once people learned to leave her alone, she seemed content to sit on Harry's shoulder and watch all that happened around her. She even asked for certain bits of food from Harry's plate, which he gladly supplied; she said it was some of the best she'd ever tasted.

"So - what's this secret of yours?" Harry finally asked the question that had been burning in his mind all night.

"Secret? Hmm?" Sarchanie was licking her lips clean of its latest morsel, looking for all the world like a scaly cat. "What secret?"

"About the Dark Lord," Harry hissed irritably. "You promised."

"Oh, that." The dragon sniffed; she was hunting for a comfortable spot to lie on Harry's quilt. "The true Dark Lord is not Voldemort."

"Yes, you mentioned that." Harry was starting to lose patience, but he did his best to keep his voice level; a small dragon could set his bed on fire just as easily as a big one. "Who is it, though?"

"I haven't the foggiest," She purred. Harry got the impression that she was enjoying herself.

"That's not fair," Harry protested, sitting up a bit straighter in his bed.

"Oh, calm down." The dragon shot him a withering glare. "I don't know, but I know how you can find out. You're not going to like it, though."

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It was two weeks before Harry could manage it. It had to be on a weekend, of course; it was difficult enough to sneak away from the castle, making it all the way to London without being caught was a feat in itself. Stealing the floo powder and finding a fireplace in which to use it had been a great risk, yet all of that paled in comparison to what he was required to do next.

"You're absolutely sure?" Harry asked for what must have been the thousandth time.

"Yes," The horntail hissed irritably in his ear. "It's in there. Trust me."

Harry was standing in the massive atrium that served as the entryway to the Ministry of Magic. If he had worried about being discovered there, his cares evaporated; even on the weekend, that massive space was simply packed with people. Witches and wizards of every description and walk of life, goblins and house elves; Harry even saw a centaur carving a wide swath through the thick crowd. It was hard not to stand there dumbstruck as he watched the flurry of activity all around him, but Harry had come with a purpose.

Beneath his invisibility cloak, Harry felt reasonably safe. None but Dumbledore had managed to pierce the camouflage, and Harry doubted very much that any of the witches or wizards bustling through that hall commanded a similar mastery of magic. The more pressing concern was simply navigating through the throng without bumping into anyone; Harry stepped on more than a few toes as he darted through the crowd towards the lift at the far end.

"Level nine," Sarchanie hissed in his ear. "Department of Mysteries."

The Department of Mysteries. Until two short weeks ago, Harry hadn't even known that it existed. It wasn't a secret, not exactly; it was just something that witches and wizards didn't discuss if they could help it. Now, if Harry wanted to know the truth about the Dark Lord he was going to have to break into the shadowy depths of the Ministry in order to find it. More specifically, his answer lay in the Hall of Prophecies.

The lifts were all on the far end of the Atrium. Harry was trying to find one that was empty; with the crowd being what it was, that was a challenge. He had to wait nearly half an hour before he saw his chance. A small break in the sea of witches and wizards, a lift standing empty. Harry seized the opportunity, dashing to the lift and hammering on the 'close' button, hoping against hope that the doors would shut before anyone else entered. To his horror, a tired-looking wizard in a long beige coat was heading straight for Harry - straight for the lift.

"Better hurry," Sarchanie's urgent hiss in his ear did little to ease his nerves.

No matter how many times Harry jammed the button, the doors didn't seem to want to close; only when the Ministry wizard was nearly in arms reach did they slowly begin to slide shut. It was going to be too late, Harry thought; he was nearly there, the doors weren't closing nearly fast enough. Harry watched in horror as the wizard drew ever nearer, moving at a lazy jog once he saw the grated doors start to slide shut. The wizard made it just as the doors were closed past the point where he could have sidled in. Harry's moment of triumph was dispelled, however, when he shoved his briefcase in between the closing doors - and to Harry's horror, they began to open once more.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry reared back and kicked the briefcase. His last sight as the doors slid closed was of the tired-looking wizard tumbling backwards, arms and legs and briefcase windmilling the air. At last the doors slid completely shut, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief, until, that is, he remembered that his task was far from over. His eyes slid down the row of buttons, all worn down from years of pressing. All but the button for the ninth floor, which as pristine and polished as the day it was installed. Harry reached out and pressed it as if he expected something terrible to happen. He was almost surprised when the lift began to move without any theatrics at all.

The lift descended slowly, but purposefully, and in a few moments it had clattered to an abrupt halt. The grates slid open with a clatter that seemed far too loud. Harry and Sarchanie had arrived in a large, circular room. At first Harry thought that it was pitch black; it took him a moment to realize that there was light, it was just that everything in the room was black. The floor was slick black marble, the walls and ceiling were lined in ebony tile. As Harry stepped into the center, splashes of color burst to life on the walls. Blue flames encapsulated in black sconces along the wall illuminated doors – a dozen, perhaps, and all identical – that lined the circular chamber. Looking over his shoulder, Harry saw that the door through which they had come was no different.

Just as he was considering ways to mark the exit door, the blue flames that lined the wall began to blur. No, to move. The entire wall was rotating, picking up speed faster and faster until the blue flames were nothing more than an electric line burning itself into Harry's brain. He swayed on his feet and instinctively reached out for something to steady himself as vertigo nearly overwhelmed him, but there was nothing; he stumbled once but managed to maintain his footing. It lasted only a moment before the wall ground to a slow halt, but long after it had stopped moving the blue lines were etched across his vision.

"Good luck finding the exit now." Sarchanie's sardonic hiss in his ear made him jump, but Harry's heart sank as he realized that she was right. Finding his way back to the lift would be difficult, at best.

"Which way do we go? They all look the same." He asked. Better to focus on the task at hand than dwell on problems he couldn't solve.

"I'll know it when I see it. Try some doors." Sarchanie sounded eager beneath the hood of the invisibility cloak.

Harry saw many strange things in the department of Mysteries on that Saturday afternoon. The Ministry must have been engaged in some very interesting research indeed, for the rooms that Harry explored contained objects both wondrous and terrible. He did his best to put them all out of his head. The temptation to explore those dark and winding paths beneath London was powerful, but with a wrench of his will Harry forced himself to stay focused on his task.

Finally they came to what must have been the most boring room in the Department of Mysteries. It had a high, vaulted ceiling and was filled with rows upon rows of shelves, which were lined with with dusty orbs. Each orb was meticulously labeled, and the room was so large that the rows of shelves disappeared into the gloom. It was so cold that Harry's breath escaped his lungs in puffs of ghostly white.

"Here." Sarchanie's voice thrummed with certainty. "This is it."

"This is...what? What is this place?" Harry peered into the gloom, fighting the curious sense of unease that was creeping up his spine.

"This is the Hall of Prophecies. Every prophecy ever heard by a witch or wizard is in here, somewhere. Stored in these little crystal balls." Sarchanie's yellow eyes were bright as she peered among the dusty shelves.

"And there's one here about the Dark Lord?" Harry pressed, eager to get what they came for and get out as quickly as possible.

"Yes," the miniature dragon purred. "Somewhere."

"Somewhere..." Harry didn't try to keep the hopelessness out of his voice. There must have been thousands of the little glass orbs in that room; perhaps hundreds of thousands. With a resigned sigh, Harry reached into his robes and produced his wand; a whispered spell lit the end of it like a flashlight. Better start looking.

It was something like looking for a needle in a haystack, only worse. The room appeared vast from the entrance, but it wasn't. It was gargantuan. Even with his wand casting a shaft of radiant light into the room, Harry still couldn't see the end of the rows of shelves. When he shone it upwards, he couldn't see the ceiling. The darkness was thick and hungry, and it swallowed his wand-light eagerly. Harry wondered if that room went on forever, if he was doomed to wander the shelves eternally searching for something he would never find. He wondered if there were others down there like him, ghosts floating among the recorded prophecies who were doomed to search for all eternity.

The prophecies were all neatly labeled with names like '1977 J.L.F. to J.S.H. re: 1977 Quiddich World Cup' and '1842 H.H.H. to H.H.H. re: chickens'. There were so many inane prophecies that Harry wondered why anyone bothered recording them, or how anyone even found anything in the never-ending maze of shelves.

"They send them here to be forgotten," Sarchanie hissed softly in his ear, reading his mind. "And some are more forgotten than others."

Harry didn't bother asking what that meant.

They wandered for what felt like hours; time seemed to have little meaning down there. It may as well have been days. They had ventured deep into the rows, lost in a sea of dusty shelves with no shore in sight. One row blended into another, the shorthand on the yellowed parchment labels became gibberish to his eyes. Soon, he felt like he wasn't moving at all, simply drifting among the shelves wherever the current pulled him.

"Stop." The miniature horntail's voice was urgent in her ear, and she was jabbing her tail at a particular sphere. "There, do you see that?"

"1985 A.D.L. to G.G.R. re: lemon drops." Harry red the label out loud; it may have been the most inane one yet. The sphere seemed dustier than the ones around it, duller; in fact the longer Harry looked at it the more certain he was that it was quite possibly the least interesting prophecy in the entire storehouse and couldn't possible be what they were looking for.

"Let's keep moving," Harry said, turning away from the prophecy. He yelped when he felt a sharp set of fangs nip at his neck.

"Look." Sarchanie's voice was sharp. "It's bewitched."

A frown creased Harry's face; he was quite sure that it wasn't, but he humored the dragon all the same. Harry had barely fixed his eyes on the prophecy again and just for good measure, he took one more look but he couldn't suppress the groan the escaped his mouth. They had more important things to do, why bother with this dreadfully boring sphere?

All at once, the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up. Something wasn't right.

"I think you're right," Harry said slowly.

He tried once more to look at the sphere, and found his gaze wrenched away by a physical force, almost as if someone had grabbed his head and turned it with brute strength. The force was accompanied by a sensation of profound disgust; the sphere was such a waste of time, why was it even in here? The compulsion to get away from it was so strong that Harry took a step back, his face twisted in a grimace.

"I can't look at it," Harry's voice was tinged with frustration. "I don't even want to talk about it. Let me try..."

Harry looked away from the sphere, down the row of shelves and into the gloomy nothingness that surrounded him. Slowly, carefully, he reached out his hand; perhaps he could touch it, put it in his cloak and take it away to where he could deal with it properly. Perhaps Hermione would know a way to help him, or Professor Moody...

"Hey!" Harry yelped out loud as Sarchanie's sharp little teeth bit into him once more. "What was that for?"

"Don't touch." Sarchanie's hissing voice was grave. "They're protected."

"So how do we..." Harry's voice was lost as Sarchanie let loose with a gout of white-hot flame, precisely aimed at the prophecy in question.

Harry shielded his face from the heat as Sarchanie's dragonfire surrounded the bauble but did not touch it. Something seemed to be shielding it, something that shimmered silvery-white; it pulsed and shone against the flame but the little dragon persisted. Gradually, the silvery light grew weaker, and weaker, until finally it flickered and went out.

"There," Sarchanie's voice was smug. "Look at it now."

Hesitantly, Harry turned his head and fixed his eyes on the lemon-drop prophecy. Gone was that feeling of intense boredom; the sphere no longer looked dustier than its neighbors, or less interesting. Sarchanie's flame had stripped the orb of its enchantments, and Harry's mouth fell open as he saw that even the faded parchment label had changed. It now read '1880 H.E.T. to K.G.F. re: Dark Lord Voldemort'

The correction had been written in a precise, flowing hand; Harry could have sworn that he recognized the script but he could not place it.

"This says Voldemort on it," Harry pointed out; he wasn't quite sure if Sarchanie could read.

"It does," Sarchanie agreed. "It was also hidden exceptionally well. Go on, take it – it's safe now."

With a trembling hand, Harry reached out and took the dusty orb from the shelf. To his surprise it was quite cool. The sphere was perfectly smooth and heavier than it looked, sized just right to fit in the palm of his hand. He expected...well, something to happen. Some otherworldly knowledge to fill his mind, or a booming voice to deliver the words of the prophecy to him. A frown crossed his face, and idly Harry tapped it with the tip of his wand as he considered his options.

As soon as his wand touched it, the thing sprang to life. The dust disappeared from its surface in a puff of vapor as the sphere began to glow pale blue; brighter and brighter, until Harry could bear the sight of it no more. He looked away, and at that moment the voice filled the air; not booming, but whispered as if the speaker was standing right over Harry's shoulder. He swore that he could feel lips brushing against his ear.

"Born on the eve of the longest light, a terrible servant of the dark approaches, one by which all others pale in comparison. He will walk in the light, but should he acquire the Hallows all will fall under his shadow."

The voice fell silent, and the piercing glow of the orb slowly faded until it was dull and black once more. The dust had been burned away by whatever magic had summoned the voice; it was smooth and polished and pristine in Harry's hand.

"What...what did that mean?" Harry peered over at Sarchanie, but she simply tilted her head in her own approximation of a shrug.

"Couldn't say," She admitted. "Take the orb. Let's find our way out of here."

That was easier said than done. The gloom and sheer size of the Hall of Prophecies was an obstacle in itself, and finding the exit proved to be no mean feat. Harry tried to keep a rough estimate of time in his head, but it was hopeless. It felt like they were wandering for a very long time indeed before they finally spied the wall in the darkness; and longer still until they reached the door.

In the circular antechamber, Harry squeezed his eyes shut as the doors began to spin once more. Once again, he lost track of where he had come from, and the lift which would take him back to the Ministry Atrium could have been behind any of the identical black portals. Harry tried doors at random, and marked them with a simple spell when he was done; he got lucky on the third try. He yanked open the door and could have wept with relief when he saw the bronzed grate of the lift behind it.

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It had taken Hermione and Ron three full days to get over the fact that Harry had not only snuck out of school, not only infiltrated the Ministry, but had penetrated the most secret place in the most secret department. They were mostly cross at him for going on his own and not bringing them; pointing out that he had had Sarchanie with him didn't seem to help his cause.

Hermione was the first to come round. Her compulsive need to know what he had discovered simply outweighed her anger, and without preamble or so much as an apology she sat down next to him in the Gryffindor common room and demanded that he explain everything he'd learned. When Ron overheard them talking, he wasn't far behind; he slouched over, trying to appear disinterested, but he couldn't keep it up for long.

"Blimey, Harry." Ron had lowered himself onto the couch next to Hermione. "That's – I mean, that's heavy. Dad says that even the people who work at the Ministry don't go down there, for a reason."

"It's not somewhere I'd like to visit on holiday, that's for sure." Harry set his quill down; he had all but given up on his potions essay. "What do you think that prophecy means? It's gibberish to me."

"Let's hear it again," Hermione asked. Her face had gone nearly blank, and Harry knew that she was ready to absorb every detail.

Harry recited it dutifully. He had written it down after listening to it again in private, and by then he knew it by heart.

"Hmm," Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully and brushed a strand of her bushy hair back behind her ear. "Well...it can't be you-know-who, he wasn't born until much later. And I certainly don't think anyone would say that he 'walks in the light'."

"That's for sure," Ron agreed around a mouthful of chocolate frog. "Who else, though? I can't think of anyone more terrible than him."

"Hmmm..." Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. "What about Grindelwald? He was born in 1883, just a couple years after the prophecy was made. And...well, he was rather popular in his day. 'Walking in the light', as it were. Before he went all...dark, that is."

"OK," Harry nodded. "What about the next bit – 'Born on the eve of the longest day?'"

"The summer solstice," Hermione said at once, though her face fell. "It has to be. Only..."

"What?" Said Ron and Harry together, leaning in close.

"Grindelwald was born in March, if I remember correctly. I'll have to check to be sure, but..." She left the thought unfinished - Hermione always remembered correctly.

"Alright...not him, then. What about this part about the 'Hallows'? What are they?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione said with a frown. "I've never heard of them."

"Well..." Ron piped up, but seemed to deflate as soon as he'd spoken. "Nah, nevermind."

"What? Anything could be important." Hermione laid a hand on his arm.

"I mean, there's the Deathly Hallows..." Ron shrugged, and searched their faces for any sign of recognition. "Y'know...from the book?"

Harry and Hermione both looked at him with blank expressions.

"Right, muggles. I forget sometimes." Ron set his half-eaten chocolate frog down on the end table. "So, the short of it is that there's three artifacts – Death's Shroud, the Elder Wand, and the Resurrection Stone. Someone who gets their hands on all three supposedly becomes the Master of Death, I guess they turn invincible or something. It's just a legend...no one's ever found any of them, far as I know. It's just a kid's story."

"Maybe not." Hermione was shaking her head slowly. "What else could 'Hallows' mean?"

"It could just be rubbish," Ron asserted, picking up his chocolate frog once more with a shrug. "I mean, divination is stupid, right Hermione?"

"It is," she conceded. "But prophecies are different, Ron. It's old, powerful magic."

"Besides," Harry cut in. "Someone went through a lot of trouble to protect this one. Why would they do that if it was rubbish?"

"Well, we can't do anything until we find out who the prophecy refers to. Assuming we can do anything at all." Hermione closed her book sharply, and fixed Harry with a glare. "And you have work to do, Harry. Have you figured out that egg yet?"

Inwardly, Harry groaned - outwardly, he arranged his face in a bright smile.

"Yeah, nearly." He could tell from the way Hermione rolled her eyes that she didn't buy it.

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In the coming weeks, Harry had little time to think about prophecies or the mysterious identity of the true Dark Lord. Harry had the egg to contend with, and despite his protests none of his teachers gave so much as an inch in leeway for the Triwizard champions; Harry's schoolwork continued to pile up and threatened to bury him. Worst of all – in Harry's mind – was the Yule Ball. The event was rapidly approaching, and Harry as a champion was not only required to attend, but to find a date.

Sarchanie was proving to be an odd, but not unwelcome roommate. Once the commotion had settled down, people seemed to accept her as easily as an owl, or a rat; as far as they could tell, she was just a very interesting, extremely rare student's pet. Yet to Harry she was becoming more; he found that, surprisingly, he enjoyed her company and that she seemed to enjoy his. Harry paid for the tailor in Hogsmeade to affix a leather shoulderguard to his school robes when her claws became too much to bear. Some days she insisted on accompanying him to his classes, and on others she contented herself with sleeping away the day curled up among the blankets of his unmade bed.

The shrunken dragon always managed to rouse herself for dinner, though; it was the highlight of her day. She sat on Harry's shoulder, imperiously relaying which foods she wanted and which he could have to himself. If eating food prepared for humans was bad for dragons, Sarchanie certainly didn't show any signs. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that she was getting fatter, but he couldn't prove it.

He had also found that, for better or worse, having a dragon for a pet had the added effect of vastly increasing his 'celebrity' status. It seemed like everyone – even people he barely knew – wanted to spend time with him, just to see Harry's miniature Horntail up close. Hermione, in particular, was fascinated; Harry and Hermione had always been close, of course, but since Harry had returned from the Ministry she hardly left his side. Ostensibly, it was to help him with his schoolwork. He had fallen behind, and there was no better tutor than Hermione. Yet harry couldn't help but feel like there was something else – a suspicion that was proven correct one late night in the common room.

"Harry? Are you even listening?" The impatience in Hermione's voice snapped like the crackle of the fire.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Harry's eyes jerked open, and he shook his head to clear the fog. "Totally."

"I was saying that you're going to need to rewrite this essay, there are too many mistakes." She held out a parchment filled with his untidy scrawling; twelve inches on the role of the Wizengamot in the formation of the modern Ministry.

"Right," Harry said with a sigh. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"It's due tomorrow." Hermione's tone softened. "You're overworking yourself, Harry. You need to relax."

"I don't have time to relax, Hermione." Harry shook his head firmly. "I've got the second task coming up, Voldemort is out there somewhere, and I guess he's not even my biggest problem. I just - "

"You don't have to take all of this on yourself." Hermione leaned in and laid a hand on Harry's knee; for some reason it made him feel very warm. "You're just one person."

"But I'm not just one person, Hermione." Harry felt the frustration building in his chest, and when he stood Hermione's hand slid from his knee and took the warmth with it. "I'm me. I have to do these things because no one else can."

"If you work yourself to death, you're not going to get anything done." Hermione had remained seated, her legs crossed and her arms folded in her lap. She was looking at Harry very intently. "You need some downtime."

"I wish I had time for it...between Quidditch practice, and my schoolwork...and trying to figure out this egg...and I still have to find a bloody date for the Yule ball..." Harry had been pacing, but he collapsed into the overstuffed armchair across from Hermione with an explosive sigh.

"You told me you had the egg nearly figured out!" Hermione's voice was approaching shrill; Harry winced.

"Sorry...I didn't want you to worry. I haven't the foggiest idea what to do with the thing." Harry mugged a look that he hoped was apologetic, but he just felt tired.

Hermione opened her mouth as if she wanted to scold him, but something about the way she was looking at him softened. She ducked her head to catch his gaze, and she laid a hand on top of his. Her hands were cold – she was always cold, Hermione – but once again that feeling of warmth returned when she touched him. Harry looked up, trying to read her expression.

"Well...I know a way that I can make one of those things easier on you," Hermione said, averting her gaze at the last moment.

"Hermione – no." Harry sighed once more, though he tempered it with a weary smile. "You're not doing my homework for me, you've got loads yourself. I just need some rest, and - "

"I wasn't talking about homework." Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head and a small, shy smile.

Linebreak

The castle was always extravagantly decorated for Christmas, but the Yule Ball set an entirely new standard. Not to be outdone by the other schools of the tournament, the trappings for the ball were above and beyond anything Harry had ever witnessed. The entire, massive space simply sparkled; shrouded in silvery mistletoe and enchanted baubles, it was like stepping into a wintry wonderland. The massive tables that seated each house were gone, replaced by hundreds of smaller ones. And of course, at the front of the Hall, was the dance floor.

"Champions, if you please!" Professor McGonagall's voice wafted over the hall as the feasting died down; Harry felt his heart leap into his throat. The other champions and their partners were already standing up; Cedric and Cho Chang, Fleur and Roger Davies, Viktor and a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl Harry didn't recognize. Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood, glancing over at his partner nervously.

"Ready?" Hermione asked him; she looked nearly as nervous as he did.

"Guess so. I'll try not to embarrass you."

Harry and Hermione fell in behind the others, and each pair claimed their own corner of the dance floor. Harry tried not to feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him; he tried not to think about the fact that with one misstep he could embarrass not only himself, but Hermione and his entire school. Instead he looked only at Hermione, and she at him. Everything else seemed to fade away; the decorations, the people, the judges and ministry officials and professors and even the others they shared the floor with. It was just Harry and Hermione.

She had nearly taken his breath away when he'd first seen her before the feast. Her gown was periwinkle-blue, made from some floaty, soft material that Harry didn't recognize. It flowed around her as she moved like the fins of a mermaid underwater. It might have been magic, but Harry wasn't sure; everything about her seemed magical. She'd done something to her hair, as well. It was no longer bushy and frizzy but sleek and caught at the back of her head in an elaborate knot that cascaded elegantly over her left shoulder.

Yet for all her efforts, it was her smile that drew Harry's gaze and held it. Perhaps he had never seen her really smile before, or perhaps he was simply looking at her in a different way that night; whatever the case, she was positively radiant. It was as if she captured all the light and magic sparkling in the Great Hall, magnified it, and reflected it back at him. He couldn't help but smile just looking at her. Harry took Hermione's hand in his own and laid his other on her waist, and that warm feeling returned in force. He found that it was far from unpleasant.

Then the orchestra began to play, and the dancers were moving. Harry had managed to squeeze some practice in, with Neville of all people; when Hermione had asked him to the dance he knew that he had to make sure he wouldn't embarrass her. He led ably enough, and he had only one small stumble from which he managed to recover with a modicum of grace. Harry and Hermione moved together, and he felt as if his feet hardly touched the ground. They were floating together, in a world all their own filled with the gentle, lilting tones of the orchestral waltz. He couldn't take his eyes off of her face.

Then Professor Dumbledore stepped onto the floor clutching Madam Maxine's hand in his long-fingered grip, and the other soon followed suit. Harry's illusion was shattered as the dance floor suddenly became crowded with couples, but Harry didn't mind. No longer the center of attention, Harry found his voice.

"You, erm..." Harry swallowed heavily; he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say to his friend, but it needed to be said. "You look very pretty tonight, Hermione."

Hermione blushed, to his great surprise, and lowered her eyes. When she looked up again her smile was twice as radiant as it had been before, and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.

"Thank you, Harry." she said simply. They waltzed past Ron and Pavarti; Ron rolled his eyes at Harry like he might have done during one of Professor Binn's insufferably boring lectures, but Harry found that he was rather enjoying himself.

"You know, I was kind of surprised when you asked me." Harry suddenly felt the desire to talk. "I mean, it's usually the blokes who do the asking."

"I was too," Hermione giggled, a little peal of tinkling laughter that was infectious. "It just kind of...came out."

"I'm glad you did," Harry said earnestly. "I don't think I would have had much fun with anyone else. If I could have even managed a date."

"Please," Hermione scoffed, giving his shoulder a playful slap. "Every girl in our year wanted you to ask her; I'm sure some above us did, too. I just got to you first."

"Really?" Harry frowned thoughtfully; it certainly hadn't seemed that way to him. "Well, I'm still glad that I came with you."

Hermione just smiled and laid her head gently on Harry's chest as they danced together. It occurred to Harry that he'd never held a girl in quite that way before, and he certainly never imagined that he would be holding Hermione in that way. He thought it should have made him uncomfortable, but it didn't – far from it. The warmth had spread from his chest, radiating throughout his entire body until he felt like he was going to burst in the most wonderful way imaginable. His arm encircled her waist, pulling her close almost without thought. It felt right.

"I've been thinking," Harry said. "About the prophecy, the one about the true dark lord..."

"Harry..." Hermione lifted her head from Harry's chest wearing an expression that he couldn't quite read. "Let's not talk about that right now. Let's just enjoy...this."

Harry nodded wordlessly; she was right, and there would be time later. As Hermione laid her head back against Harry's chest, he felt her arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. In his mind, he imagined all of his worries, all the stresses of school and the tournament and dark lords, everything that weighed him down flowing out with his breath. He felt lighter, somehow, when it was done.

The slow dance didn't last quite as long as Harry thought it should have, but the Weird Sisters were hardly known for their waltzes. As soon as the stately waltz had ended, the guitarist slammed a chord on his electric guitar that reverberated through Harry's entire body. What had once been an orderly arrangement of dancing couples disintegrated almost immediately as cheers and screams erupted and the ball-goers rushed the stage. Harry was preparing to make a stealthy exit, but Hermione grabbed his hand and tugged at him with a smile so genuine that, in that moment, he would have done anything she asked.

Harry and Hermione rushed the stage with everyone else just as the band launched into an uptempo, energetic song that Harry didn't recognize. Everyone else seemed to, though; the singer's lyrics were completely lost in the drone of the crowd singing along, and everybody near the stage was moving to one rhythm. Jumping, writhing, undulating, flailing; the energy all around them was catching, and Harry had no choice but to join in. Together with Hermione, he jumped and screamed with the rest of them, singing words he didn't know at the top of his lungs.

At his side, Hermione was just as exuberant. She was hopping up and down in place, her arms raised as she added her voice to the crowd. She looked at Harry, caught him with another of her broad smiles, and reached out to squeeze his hand. Then the energy of the crowd swept them up once more, and Harry surrendered himself to it willingly. They danced, they screamed, they jumped up and down and sang until their throats were raw. Harry couldn't remember ever having as much fun as he did that night.

The Weird Sisters played for hours; their energy and endurance was matched only by the enthusiasm of the students. After their third encore, they left the stage for the final time and the enchanted lights in the great hall came up slowly. It was like waking up from a dream; the students looked around and blinked at each other as if wondering how they got there, leaning on one another and laughing as their fatigue hit them all at once. One by one, the students started to leave the great hall and head for the dormitories for a night of well-earned sleep.

Harry felt an arm slip through his, and Hermione was there. She looked decidedly mussed; at some point during the night her hair had come undone and it cascaded in a chaotic tumble over both shoulders. Her face was flushed and her chest rose and fell rapidly, one hand on the pinked skin below her throat as she fought to catch her breath.

"That was...I mean, just..." She looked up at Harry and laughed, leaning on him as if she was unsteady on her feet.

"It was," Harry agreed readily. He didn't have the words to describe it, either.

"Let's get some air," Hermione was fanning herself with one hand, the other still resting on Harry's arm.

The left the great hall for the grounds; there were a few students milling about out there, but not many. The decorations for the event even extended to the exterior of the castle. The lawn that stretched before the entrance had been transformed into an expansive rose garden. Stone benches lined cobblestone pathways among the fragrant flowers, and the entire place was lit by fairy lights dancing inside the rose bushes...no, actual fairies, Harry realized with a start. He could see the little shapes moving among the brambles, chasing one another and dancing merrily as they shed their soft yellow glow.

"Oh, it's so beautiful..." Hermione's voice was breathy and far away as they stepped out into that impromptu grotto.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, drinking in the sight. "Sure is..."

They had no destination in mind. Neither of them led, but together they ambled along the softly-lit path. It took Harry a moment to realize that they, unconsciously or not, were following the sound of burbling water. As they rounded a corner, a fountain came into view. It was a vast, marble sculpture depicting three wizards, wands raised in a shared salute. The fountain dominated a secluded, circular clearing, rimmed by rosebushes and lined with stone benches.

Hermione tugged gently on Harry's arm and led them to a bench. After the heat and energy of the Great Hall, the air in the little garden and the stone beneath them felt blessedly cool. Hermione laid her head on Harry's shoulder with a contented sigh, her arm still intertwined with his. Her fingers traced little patterns on his arm, though she didn't seem to be aware that she was doing it. They didn't speak for some time, simply enjoying each others company and the private beauty that the garden offered them.

"Harry..." Hermione spoke hesitantly, as if she didn't want to break the enchanted silence that had fallen over them. "I just wanted to say, I had such a wonderful time with you tonight."

"I did too, actually." Harry watched two fairies zip across the garden, the tinkling sounds of their laughter mingling with the burbling fountain. "And here I was dreading this thing for weeks."

"I'm glad I made it bearable." Hermione lifted her head and looked at Harry with a small smile.

"More than bearable," he assured her.

"You know..." Hermione's smile slowly faded as she lowered her gaze. "I worry about you, Harry. A lot. You...well, sometimes it seems like you're bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"Sometimes it feels that way," Harry admitted. "But you shouldn't worry, Hermione. I've got you and Ron, and everyone else to help me."

Hermione smiled once more, and her fingers crept down the length of Harry's arm. Before he even knew what was happening, she had intertwined her fingers with his.

"I think I'm going to be the envy of every fourth-year girl after this," Hermione said with wry smirk. "Oh, I would have given anything for that a few weeks ago but now..."

She trailed off, losing her words as she lifted her eyes to meet Harry's gaze. All night, there had been something behind those deep brown eyes that Harry couldn't quite read. Something that she wanted to tell him, perhaps, but couldn't. It nagged at the back of his mind then, as they watched each other in that quiet little garden. And then, all at once, he knew.

Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he bent his head and kissed her. Her lips were warm, and tasted vaguely of whatever she had decorated them with. He thought she might be surprised, or shocked, but she only pressed herself into that kiss and returned it as if it was what she had been waiting for all night. When Harry broke the kiss, he leaned back and watched anxiously for her reaction.

"I've been waiting for you to do that all night," Hermione said breathlessly. Her eyes flicked over his face, absorbing every detail. "Do it again."

linebreak

"Alright," Hermione said briskly, slapping down a sheet of parchment on the table between them. "Let's get started."

The parchment was covered with names; more precisely, the names of wizards born in summer between 1880 and 1885. Not every wizard, of course; only the ones that they had managed to find in books, old newspapers, and other sources available to them in the library. It had taken ages, and eaten up most of the remainder of their winter holiday. It would be worth it, though; if they could eliminate all but one name on the list they would finally learn the identity of the true Dark Lord.

"Blimey, that's a lot of names." Ron eyed the list warily. "Where do we even start?"

"At the top," Hermione said matter-of-factly. Wary of being overheard, they had chosen a table in the most secluded section of the library. "Albertus Alfonsus."

Their table was piled with books; reference materials, birth records, criminal records, anything they could find that might have information pertaining to the witches and wizards on the list. They each opened a book, poring through it for any information about Albertus Alfonsus.

"Ah, nope." Ron jabbed a finger at his page. "Says here he failed out of Hogwarts in his third year, he's a squib – not really dark lord material."

"Alright," Hermione said, and she crossed the name off the list with a flourish. "Serpentus Bastien."

It was slow going. With so many names, and so many books to scour, they sometimes spent an hour or more on a single name before they could glean even a scrap of information. Still, they progressed and one-by-one each name was rejected with a scratch of Hermione's quill. The candles had burned low indeed when finally Hermione laid down her quill with a weary sigh.

"Goodbye Yarro Yardley. That leaves us with...oh..."

Hermione's brow knit in confusion as she looked down at the list. Eagerly, Harry slid the parchment over to his side of the table for a look. When he saw the only name that remained there, he shook his head firmly.

"That can't be right. We must have made a mistake."

There, written in Hermione's impeccable penmanship and surrounded by the scratched-out names of rejected candidates, was the last name Harry Potter had expected to see.

Albus Dumbledore.


	2. Chapter 2

"There's no way that's right," Harry said again with a frown, and he slid the parchment over to Ron.

"Nah, that's mental." Ron shook his head firmly. "Dumbledore? The Dark Lord? Why not Harry, then?"

"We may have forgotten something, or missed another name…" Hermione was frowning as well, tapping her quill against her chin thoughtfully. "And...well, prophecies are mysterious. They don't always come true, or some say that they come true in a ways that we don't always understand."

"Well," Ron's voice was firm as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever it is - Dumbledore can't be the bleeding Dark Lord. It doesn't make any sense."

Harry was inclined to agree. He'd known Dumbledore since his first year at Hogwarts, and he probably knew him better than any other student. He'd only ever seen the headmaster as a kind, fair, and just leader - powerful, of course, but simply being powerful didn't make one evil. Dumbledore had shown him more warmth than his real family ever had, and that counted for a lot with Harry. It should count for a lot with anybody.

And yet, a voice nagged at the back of Harry's mind. A quote he remembered hearing as a child growing up with the Dursleys. 'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' He knew Dumbledore better than most, it's true - but what did he really know about him? Harry didn't know where he was born, what his family was like - if he even had any family - what he did in his spare time, or any number of things that Harry knew about people he considered his friend. He was hardly privy to the headmaster's innermost thoughts and feelings.

Harry shook his head, as if he could physically eject such thoughts from his mind. He felt like a traitor even thinking like that, and that made him feel resentful. Harry snatched the paper from Ron's hands and crumpled it into a compact ball with as much ferocity as he could muster, then hurled it into the darkest recesses of the Forbidden Section.

"This is absurd. We shouldn't even be considering it. I'll ask Sarchanie, see if she has any more ideas. And maybe…" Harry paused, the words dying in his mouth as he spoke them.

"What?" Hermione peered up at him curiously.

"Well...I was about to say that I'd ask Professor Moody, but...maybe I'd better not." Harry wasn't quite sure why, but the thought of bringing the old auror in on their search filled him with unease.

"Up to you, mate." Ron shrugged as he stood, gathering his things. "But later. C'mon, let's get some food. I'm bloody starving."

It was a relief to get out of the library. After an entire day spent sitting in the uncomfortable chairs and peering into dimly lit tomes, Harry's back and neck had developed cricks so severe that he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to look to his left again. Regardless of the reason, it felt good to be spending time with Ron and Hermione. Ron's jealousy over Harry's inclusion in the triwizard tournament had only grown, and although he was once again speaking to Harry he could tell that he still bore a grudge. Since the Yule Ball it had only gotten worse.

Harry finally found out why as they made their way towards the dining hall. Ron stopped just outside the great wooden double doors, forcing Harry and Hermione to stop with him.

"So, are you two snogging on the regular now, or what?" Ron's voice was conversational, but Harry could tell that something was bothering him. Hermione spoke before he had a chance.

"I don't see how that's any business of yours, Ronald." Hermione lifted her chin, but the faintest hint of a smirk played at the corners of her lips. Her first encounter with Harry after the Yule Ball certainly had not been her last.

"You are, then." Ron's lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded vigorously as if agreeing with something. "Brilliant. That's brilliant. I'm happy for you two, it's brilliant, really."

"Stop saying brilliant," Harry protested with a frown. Ron wasn't making any sense to him.

"What should I say, Harry?" Ron held his arms out wide, inviting ideas. "You tell me."

"I don't know what you should say, Ron. Why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not." Ron shouldered his bag and shook his head firmly. "I'm fine. But I'm not hungry, so I'll just catch you later, yeah?"

Harry and Hermione were left standing there, watching Ron's back as he stalked away. Harry was fairly certain that he could hear him muttering 'Brilliant, brilliant' to himself.

"What was that all about?" Harry scowled; as if he needed one more problem to deal with.

"I have no idea." Hermione shrugged, but the way that smirk lingered on her lips left Harry with the impression that she might know more than she was telling him.

Whatever his thoughts were on the matter, they were washed away when Hermione tipped her head up and laid a gentle kiss on Harry's lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Harry placed his hands on her waist - it all felt so natural, so easy that it was hard to believe that just a week ago he'd only seen Hermione as a friend.

"Don't worry about it," She said, her lips nearly brushing Harry's again.

"I've got enough on my mind," Harry agreed.

"I've been thinking," Hermione said. There was no reason for them to remain like that, but Hermione didn't seem eager to leave Harry's embrace. "Maybe you should ask Sarchanie about the Hallows. What did she say? Dragons trade in secrets, after all."

Harry nodded once. It was a good idea; why hadn't he thought of it before?

"Sarchanie, do you know anything about the 'Hallows' that the prophecy mentioned?"

The dragon looked up from her rest and blinked lazily. She liked sitting by the fire in the common room, especially late at night when the others had long since gone to sleep. Harry had taken to doing his homework well into the small hours of the morning to indulge her. He was sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs, tapping his quill against a piece of parchment that had been blank for over an hour.

"The Deathly Hallows? Not much more than you, I imagine." The little dragon tilted her head in a gesture that Harry knew approximated a shrug.

"I thought that was just a children's story," Harry felt his brow knit into a frown.

"And? Does that mean it's not true? You of all people should know that." Sarchanie yawned, her forked tongue rolling out of her fanged mouth.

"So…there are three, then, right?" Harry set his unfinished essay aside, forgotten. "The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Shroud of Invisibility. And if I want to stop the true dark lord - whoever it is - I need to find them all. I don't even know where to start…"

"I'm not good at 'humor'. This is a joke, right?" Sarchanie fixed him with a look that he could only describe as incredulous.

"What? No, how would I have a clue?"

"You already have one. That seems like a good start to me."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, shut again, and thought. How had he managed to slip past the spells that guarded the Ministry and the Department of Mysteries without so much as an alarm being raised? Invisibility cloaks didn't shield one from spells. Invisibility cloaks didn't last forever, and invisibility cloaks could be defeated by simple spells. But Death's Shroud was another matter entirely. Suddenly it clicked into place, and he silently berated himself for not seeing it sooner.

"My cloak…" he said aloud, so shocked that he slipped back into English without thought.

"I thought you knew," Sarchanie said with another shrug that wasn't quite an apology. "As for the others...well, time dilutes history into legend. The only way to really know the truth is to talk to someone who was there."

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _I don't often take the time to answer personal letters these days, my health being what it is, but when Perenelle showed me one with your name on it I couldn't help but read it. And I must say, you've piqued my interest._

 _The Resurrection Stone, if the legends are to be believed, was created even before my time. The Hallows are real, of course, but even during my childhood we heard the tales of the three brothers who defied Death and won her 'favor'. When I began my studies as a young man, I took a particular interest in the resurrection stone for personal reasons that I do not feel inclined to discuss in this letter. My search, thankfully, reached a dead end and I never found it. I discovered, by tracing the lineage of Cadmus, that the stone was most likely in the possession of the Gaunt family. In my day the family was quite powerful and obtaining any of their heirlooms would have been impossible for a man of my means, and these days the house of Gaunt is nothing but a memory. Their treasures have been sold or stolen, and I daresay that the Stone - if they ever even had it - would have been among those lost to the ages._

 _I will offer one final piece of advice, Mr. Potter. Do not seek the Stone. It promises to return the dead to life, but remember that it is an instrument of Death itself - and it exists only to serve its master._

 _Yours,_

 _Nicolas Flamel_

Harry set the letter down slowly, digesting the content of the letter as his mind churned with the possibilities. Nicolas Flamel's answer gave him a place to start, at least, but it was little better than a dead end. And then there was his warning - the stone exists only to serve its master. He wasn't sure how a stone that could return a soul from death's grasp could serve Death in any capacity, but for some reason the words sent a chill down Harry's spine.

"What's that, Harry?"

Harry almost instinctively moved to hide the parchment, but when he realized that it was Hermione he held it out to her after only a moment's hesitation. She collapsed onto the sofa beside him, lowering her heavy book bag to the floor with a grateful sigh. When she took the letter from Harry and read it, her face arranged itself into a familiar mask of concern.

"I didn't know you'd contacted Nicolas Flamel," Hermione said, her tone slightly hurt.

"I didn't think he'd write back," Harry said with a shrug. "Since he destroyed the Philosopher's Stone, I didn't even know if he was still - well, you know."

"The Gaunts…" Hermione frowned once more, tapping the parchment thoughtfully. "I wonder."

"What is it?"

"Well," Hermione bent double and reached inside her bookbag, at last withdrawing a heavy tome bearing the title 'A Comprehensive History of the Great Magical Houses of Britain'. "This book is a bit outdated…"

"Hermione, why do you even have that book?"

"Research," Hermione said. She glanced up at Harry with a sheepish smile as she cracked open the dusty volume. "It's for my History of Magic class."

"Blimey, Hermione, could you have picked a more boring subject?"

"Ah-ha." Hermione had ignored Harry's comment entirely, and she stabbed a finger at the page triumphantly. "It says here that the Gaunts owned property outside of Little Hangleton."

"I'm not sure that helps us." Harry looked down at the entry on the Gaunts, feeling a certain weariness at yet another mystery. "Like Nicolas Flamel's letter said, there's no guarantee that the Gaunts ever even had it, and if they did it's long gone."

"It couldn't hurt to go there. See if there's any clues, or - "

"I don't know, Hermione. I mean, don't you think that this is a little bit...bigger than us?"

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, before she very carefully closed her book and set it aside. When she turned back to him, her jaw was set.

"That is the most un-Harry like thing I've ever heard you say."

"Hermione, I just mean - well, chasing legends and prophecies - don't you think it'd be nice to just have a normal school year for once? I'm just…" Harry struggled for words for a moment, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "Tired."

Hermione's expression softened, and she slid down the length of the couch until their thighs were brushing. She reached for his hand, intertwined her fingers with his, and laid her head gently on his shoulder. She smelled like honey and old books.

"Remember what you said to me? There's no one else to do these things, Harry. You're just...you. Things happen around you. Someone has to be the hero."

"I'm not a hero," Harry protested, but his voice had gone soft. He ran his thumb over Hermione's hand, a small smile spreading on his face.

"You are to me," she said quietly. "You are to most of us."

They were quiet for a long time. The only sounds in the cozy Gryffindor common room were their gentle breathing and the crackle of the perpetually-lit fire. She was right, of course. Harry couldn't simply ignore the clues that had been spread out before him, he couldn't ignore the danger that lurked in the shadows no matter how tired he was. He was simply Harry, and no amount of wishing for a 'normal' life would change that.

"You're not coming with me," he said at last. "There's no telling what we'll find there, and I don't want to drag you into this mess."

Hermione lifted her head from Harry's shoulder and met his gaze with a look that told him he'd already lost that particular battle.

The Gaunt shack was the very picture of dilapidated. Squat and squalid, the filthy little thing huddled amidst weeds and overgrown grass. There wasn't a plum line to be found; shutters hung crooked, the roof was peeling up, even the very walls fell against each other in diagonals as if they needed their mutual support to stay erect. The tiny hovel was well on its way to surrendering to the elements, and as Harry looked at it he marveled that it still even stood.

"Well, here we are." Hermione drew her cardigan tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the night. "I'm sure it's not nearly as spooky in the daylight."

Harry wasn't sure about that. The Gaunt's last home had the look of a place that spawned stories, the sort of residence that the locals gave a wide berth even during the day. Harry knew next to nothing about the people who had lived there, but just looking at the squalid little hut sent shivers down his spine and he could almost hear strange noises coming from within.

"The last Gaunts to live here were Marvolo, and his children Morfin and Merope." Hermione's voice came out in a whisper, even though they were the only ones around for miles. "I did some research...Marvolo and Morfin both spent time in Azkaban, but Merope lived out her days here. They were all gone by 1943."

Harry nodded, barely listening to the facts that Hermione was reciting. They washed over him like a stream burbling over a rock. Something about this place had him on edge, made him feel like he was in danger just being there. With trembling fingers he reached into his robes and produced his wand; just holding it made him feel a bit better. With his jaw set, he slowly walked to the crooked door.

The battered wooden portal opened with the squeal of iron hinges that had been neglected for longer than Harry had been alive. It was pitch black inside the hut; but with an uttered spell Harry pierced the darkness with a shaft of light from his wand. Just behind him, Hermione did the same. Their twin beams of light illuminated the scene within.

It was difficult to tell how much of the filth inside was from the years of neglect, and how much was from the last occupant. Certainly, the dirty dishes piled here and there suggested a certain level of disregard for housework; bits of bone littered the floor. Harry could only imagine how it must have smelled forty years ago, but thankfully the years had stolen the stench from the place; now all he smelled was dirt and rust.

"I don't see anything," Harry said after a moment. It didn't take long to inspect the entirety of the one-room shack.

"Would you hide such a thing in plain sight?" Sarchanie hissed in his ear, her keen amber eyes peering curiously into the gloom. "There's...something here. Magic. I can feel it."

"What did she say?" Hermione peered at the miniature dragon curiously.

"She says she feels magic here," Harry said.

It took them hours. They opened every crooked cupboard, lifted every disgusting plate and bowl and overturned the poorly-crafted furniture. They climbed up on the counters to inspect the rafters, even went outside and examined the exterior of the horrid little home, and they had all but given up hope when Harry noticed something inside beneath his feet. When he put his weight on a particular spot on the floor, the creak of the floorboards sounded hollow, nothing like the dull 'thunk' of the boards that had been laid down on the bare earth. He tried it a few times, tapping his toe against the suspect board and listening to the hollow knock that it made.

"I think there's something here, Hermione."

Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to his knees and began looking for a way to prise the board up. He spent a moment feeling around the edges of the floorboard with his fingers, but he quickly realized that he'd need more leverage to lift it. Casting his wand-light around in haste, his gaze fell on a rusty iron fire poker. Armed with this tool, he wrenched the board free and cast it aside, shining his light down to see what it had hidden.

At first Harry saw nothing but a little hole in the ground, a bit of scooped-out earth that looked as if it had been dug by hand. But when he took a closer look, he spied a grubby little box. Caked with filth, it lay on its side as though it had been tossed carelessly into the hole and covered up with the floorboard with the express purpose of being forgotten. Harry bent to pick it up. It felt cool and metallic beneath the grime, and when he wiped a spot clean he saw the rich yellow gleam of gold.

"I think this is...something. I think this is something, Hermione." He fumbled with the latch and opened the lid while Hermione watched.

Inside there was a ring, lying in a bed of crushed purple velvet. Like the box it gleamed of gold, and though Harry knew little of jewelry he could tell that it was a fine piece. Delicate ropes of golden filigree looped around the band like a snake coiling around its prey. The stone was the deepest black, and engraved with a curious symbol - a circle, circumscribed inside a triangle and bisected by a line.

"This is...huh." Harry reached into the box for the ring, but drew his hand back with a yelp when Hermione slapped him.

"Harry! Don't touch it, it might be cursed." Hermione's voice was an urgent hiss, and she pointed her wand at the ring. "Incantatem Revelio!"

At first nothing seemed to happen, and Harry thought that - for the first time in his memory - Hermione had performed a spell incorrectly. But then, as they pair of them looked on in shock, the ring began to glow an angry red. Like a band of molten metal it gleamed brighter, until its core was burning white, and then slowly it faded. When the light was gone, the ring sat in its box as if nothing had happened at all.

"I don't even know what that means," Hermione admitted with a frown. "But it can't be good. Harry, don't touch that ring."

Even if Harry had wanted to, the display that he had just witnessed had abolished that desire.

"We'll have to find someone who can undo the curse," Harry said with a frown. There was only one person at Hogwarts he trusted enough with that task.

Alastor Moody's office was, to Harry's eye, a mess. Devices for detecting dark magic were strewn here and there, piled on his desk and lining the walls. Sheafs of parchment, everything from descriptions of possible Dark Wizards to ungraded assignments were arranged in haphazard piles, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how the old auror managed to get anything done in such a chaotic jumble.

The man himself was seated at his desk, rubbing at the knee above his false leg with a grimace. His real eye was looking down at the carved wooden appendage, but his magical one - that unsettling, all-seeing blue orb - was fixed unerringly on Harry's face. Harry shut the door behind him.

"So, Potter, what brings you here today?" Mad-Eye Moody took a sip of his ever-present flask, smacking his lips with relish as he replaced the stopper.

"Well, sir…" Harry hesitated. Moody wasn't like the other professors, but Harry did wonder if he would go straight to Dumbledore with what Harry had found. "I found a ring, and I believe it's cursed. I was hoping you'd look at it for me."

"A ring?" Moody's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned over his desk to whisper conspiratorially with Harry. "Owning an unlicensed magical artifact can earn you a hefty fine, but maybe this will be our little secret. Let's see it, then."

Harry hesitated only a moment more before he placed the grubby golden box on Moody's desk. He'd wiped the majority of the grime off, but filth still crusted the creases and lines of the filigree. Very deliberately, Harry opened the lid and revealed the contents to Moody. The old auror licked his lips once in a nervous gesture that Harry had never seen him make. His magical eye darted between the ring and Harry, almost faster than Harry could follow.

"Where did you get this, Potter?" Moody's voice had an edge that set off warning bells in Harry's head.

"I'd prefer not to say, sir." Harry's hand inched closer to the box. He was beginning to think that coming to Moody had been a mistake.

"Do you know…" Moody laughed, almost cackled, as he tried to get his words out. "Do you know how close you came to ruining everything?"

Quicker than Harry could react, Moody snapped the box shut and pulled it towards him. The old auror heaved himself to his feet and, to Harry's shock, his wand had appeared in his hand. Harry backed away slowly, but before he had taken five paces he found his back up against the far wall of Moody's office. The shapes in Moody's foe-glass writhed and swirled, menacing without form.

"I came here for a purpose, Potter, but this...this is more important. He'll reward me beyond my wildest dreams for this." Moody was raving, now, stumbling over his words as he advanced on Harry. His wand hand was trembling. "You always manage to be in the wrong place at the wrong time...but no, not this time, boy. You're coming with me, we're ending this right now."

"Professor - what - " Harry's mind whirled, trying to make sense of Moody's babbling.

Harry didn't have time to react. Moody had grabbed him roughly by the arm and was yanking the door of his office open. He stuffed the golden box into the pocket of his overcoat and pressed his wand into Harry's ribs so hard that the boy winced.

"We're going for a little walk, you and I." Moody's voice had taken a manic edge, and his eyes - real and magical - were darting around wildly. "Just outside the grounds where we can apparate. Say so much as one word and I'll kill you where you stand."

To punctuate his point, the old Auror dug his wand into Harry's ribs as he yanked on Harry's arm and led him from his office. Harry had come to Moody late in the evening, and the corridors were deserted. Harry's mind was spinning with possibilities, what he could do to free himself, but there was no solution that he saw as viable - perhaps once they were outside Harry could wrench free of Moody's grasp, escape into the Forbidden Forest and lose him there…

"Alastor." Harry immediately recognized the voice of Albus Dumbledore.

Moody froze in his tracks, and once again he licked his lips in that nervous gesture that struck Harry as so odd. Then as Harry watched, Moody carefully rearranged his face into a more familiar expression and turned around to face Dumbledore with a respectful nod.

"Albus," Harry could hear his voice quivering.

"Where are you going with Harry, Alastor?" Dumbledore was stepping closer, that serene expression on his face never changing - yet Harry could feel the power that welled beneath that placid surface. Moody hesitated for only a moment before he responded.

"I caught Potter here wandering the halls," Moody gave Harry a little shake as if to demonstrate his mischievous ways. "I was bringing him back to his dormitory."

"The Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction, Alastor." Dumbledore was close, now. Harry felt Moody's wand leave his ribs, slowly inch upwards.

"Professor, watch out - " Everything happened at once.

"AVADA KED -"

"Expelliarmus!" Dumbledore's voice snapped with power as he unleashed his spell.

The force of Dumbledore's spell had knocked both Moody and Harry from their feet at the same moment that Moody's wand was torn from his grasp. The wand sailed in a graceful arc, and Dumbledore plucked it from midair effortlessly. Harry landed behind Moody, placing the old auror between himself and Dumbledore. The little golden box had tumbled from his pocket, blocked by his body from Dumbledore's sight - without thinking, Harry snatched it up and stuffed it into the depths of his robes before either Moody or Dumbledore could notice.

"I'll ask you again, Alastor." Dumbledore was looking at Moody's wand curiously as though it were some manner of fascinating insect. "What were you doing with Harry?"

Mad-Eye Moody began to cackle once more, unleashing that same crazed, bubbling laughter that had so unnerved Harry in his office. He groped about in his coat pocket, searching for something - searching for the box that Harry had taken. When he found it missing, he whirled on the Boy Who Lived and scrambled to his feet. His scarred face was a mask of rage, his eye whirling madly in its socket.

"You're a clever boy, Potter. Stand with us against the true Dark Lord and my master may even reward you, too. Just give it here, and we'll figure this out."

"Step away, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was calm, and the hand holding his wand was rock steady. "That is not Alastor Moody."

Moody licked his lips once and whirled on Dumbledore, his hands clenched into fists. The hate that twisted his expression was terrible to behold.

"What was your first clue, old man?" More mad laughter bubbled out of him. "Bask in your victory, now, but your time is coming. Everyone will know soon enough what - "

Dumbledore didn't speak a word; his stunning spell erupted without warning, striking the Moody imposter square in the chest. He crumpled like an empty sack, falling in a tangle of limbs and clothes. Harry and Dumbledore looked at each other for a long moment, before Harry finally found his voice.

"What was he talking about, Professor? About the true Dark Lord?" Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"I don't know, Harry. Just the raving of a broken mind, I expect." Dumbledore's face was unreadable, and he paused for a moment before speaking again. "What did he want from you? He said, 'give it here'."

In an instant, Harry made a choice.

"I don't know, Professor." Harry lied, and felt only the smallest pang of regret. His eyes never left the headmaster's. "Just the raving of a broken mind."

Dumbledore and Harry looked at each other for a long moment, and for the briefest moment Harry feared the man that he had once considered his friend and mentor. But then Dumbledore smiled, that same placid, kindly smile that had anchored Harry for three years. For the first time, it was like looking at a stranger.

"No doubt. Return to your dormitory and try to get some rest - I'll sort this out." When Harry didn't move, Dumbledore's bushy brows raised. "Now, Harry."

"What? Old Mad-Eye? No way." Ron was staring at Harry gape-mouthed, his jealousy forgotten for the moment as Harry related his encounter with the Mad-Eye imposter.

"That's...that's really scary, Harry." Hermione had been listening with her hand over her mouth, and she reached out to touch Harry's arm when he finished his tale.

"He mentioned the true dark lord." Harry's voice was a whisper, even though the noise in the Great Hall would have prevented them from being overheard even if he'd shouted. "And Dumbledore just...brushed it off."

"You can't be...I mean, you can't actually still think that Dumbledore was the one that prophecy was referring to." Ron glanced between Harry and Hermione, half-eaten sandwich poised in midair in his disbelief.

"Well...I mean you have to admit it looks suspicious…" Hermione was grimacing.

"No," Ron said firmly. He dropped his sandwich back onto his plate. "I won't hear it."

"Ron, no one's saying that he is or isn't." Harry said diplomatically. "Only that it bears looking into, right?"

"No, it doesn't." Ron shook his head, his expression twisting into disgust. "I don't believe what I'm hearing from you. Dumbledore has always been there for us. He's your friend, Harry, and he saved you from - from whoever was pretending to be Mad-eye. If he's a dark lord, than so's my mum."

"Ron - "

"You know what, I've got somewhere I need to be." Ron piled some more food on his plate and left, shouldering his bag as he went.

"Potter." An all-too-familiar voice made Harry jump and whirl around. Hermione screamed.

Alastor Moody was standing behind him.

"Relax, it's me." The old auror glanced left and right, and bent his head to let Harry see the patch of hair that was missing. "See? Bastard took it for the polyjuice. Come to my office - we need to talk."

"No," Harry said. "Not until I can be sure it's you."

"Good," Moody growled. "If you'd taken my word for it I would've smacked you upside your fool head."

"Come to the library," Hermione cut in, eyeing Mad-Eye carefully. "We'll sit for three hours. Then, if you don't turn into someone else, we'll know it's you."

Moody opened his mouth as if to protest, but finally he heaved a sigh and offered a weary smile. He nodded once in approval.

"Constant vigilance, eh Granger? Fine. Let's get this over with."

Harry had never realized exactly how long three hours could be. Hermione seemed content enough; she was always at home in the library. She busied herself with schoolwork, and when she finished that she opened up a book and read quietly. Harry, on the other hand, didn't take his eyes off of Moody even once. He had made the supposed auror give up his wand to Harry; it was safely tucked away in his pocket while Harry maintained a grip on his own. By the time the sand had run out for the third time in Hermione's hourglass, his fingers were sore.

"There," Moody said. It was the first time he'd spoken in three hours. "It's me. My wand, please."

He held out one callused hand, and Harry hesitated. Only when Hermione offered him a curt nod did he relinquish the wand; Moody snatched it and replaced it in his coat.

"Hope you realize how difficult that was for me, Potter." He growled. "I'm not used to being defenseless."

"I'm not used to being attacked by my professors," Harry injected a bit more venom into that statement than he truly meant to.

"Fair enough." Moody shrugged and stood, stretching the knots out of his shoulders. "My office, Potter. Like I said, we need to talk. Just you - thank you, Miss Granger."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a worried glance, but with a small shrug Harry moved to follow the Auror. He wasn't aware of any magic that could transform someone's appearance permanently, and he knew that if Moody tried to attack Harry a second time there was little he could to do prevent it, in any case. With a small wave for Hermione, Harry followed Moody from the library and up to his office off of the second floor corridor.

The office looked quite a bit different than the last time Harry had seen it. The dark detectors still covered almost every available inch of wall and desk space, but gone was the clutter and chaos. Moody - the real Moody - apparently valued order. It must have taken him ages to set things straight. As soon as they entered, Moody sank into his chair with grateful sigh, and spend a moment watching Harry as the boy slid into the chair across from him,

"I'm supposed to be retired, you know." Moody sighed and produced his hip flask. He opened the top and, sensing Harry's apprehension, held it out for his inspection. Harry recoiled immediately; whatever was in that flask was so potent it made his eyes water.

"Scotch whiskey," Moody explained, and he tipped the flask upwards for a deep drink. He smacked his lips with real relish when he was done. "I'm too old for this."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but...who was that?" There was no need to explain who Harry was referring to.

"This doesn't leave this room." Moody screwed the cap back onto his flask and tucked it away in his coat as he regarded Harry with a very serious expression. "As far as anyone knows, it never happened. That clear?"

"Yes, sir." Harry nodded once. "Only I already told - "

"Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, of course. I'll talk to them, too. But what I'm about to tell you can't be shared with anyone."

"Alright."

"It was Barty Crouch's boy. Bartemius Jr." Moody paused to let that sink in. "We interrogated him when the polyjuice wore off. He was working for You-Know-Who, of course, but we found out that he escaped with old Barty's help. It's...it's a mess, Potter. But don't worry about it, we've got it locked down. He's the one who shoved you into this blasted tournament, and his plan was to help you win it. The Triwizard cup would have been a portkey, teleported you straight to him."

Harry shivered. The plan had very nearly worked.

"Anyway. We learned a lot from him. The Dark Lord is back, Potter. He's days away from regaining a physical body, if he hasn't got one already. Dark days are ahead."

"I see," Harry said, letting the new information percolate in his brain.

"Mostly, I wanted to thank you." Moody watched Harry closely, his unblinking magical eye fixed unerringly on his face. "If not for you, I'd still be stuck in that trunk right there. If there's anything I can do for you, Potter, you just have to ask."

"Actually, sir...there is one thing." Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew the grubby golden box. "This is why I came to you - well, who I thought was you - in the first place."

"Professor," Moody had reached for the box, but Harry laid his hand on top of it before he could grab it. "I need this to stay between us. Strictly between us, and no questions. If you can't do that…"

"You've got my word, Potter. I owe you that much." When Harry moved his hand, Moody opened the box. When he saw what was inside, he whistled low. "Where did you find this, Potter?"

"I'd rather not say," Harry replied evasively.

"Hmm." Moody looked up at him, but true to his word he didn't pry. His magical eye swiveled downward to inspect the ring. "This is...blimey, Potter, there are some potent curses on this ring. Right nasty magic. I assume you want me to remove them for you?"

"That's the idea," Harry replied with a nod.

"It will take me a few days. And I can't guarantee that the thing will even survive the process." Alastor Moody snapped the box shut and sighed. "But I'll do what I can for you."

"Thank you, sir." Harry stood and pushed his chair back, but he paused before he left. "One other thing."

"What is it?"

"It's nice to meet you, Professor Moody."

Moody was as good as his word. Three days later, he called Harry to his office and set the golden box down in front of him. When Harry opened it, he wasn't sure if he was pleased or disappointed to see that the ring was still intact. For some reason, a part of him had hoped that Moody's efforts would have destroyed the thing entirely.

"There it is, Potter. Every harmful curse stripped away." Moody paused, clearly trying to find something further to say.

"I don't know what it does." He admitted at last, his brow furrowing with concern. "There's powerful magic woven into that thing, no doubt about it, but for the life of me I can't determine why. Just be careful. This goes against my better judgment, Potter, but a promise is a promise."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be careful." Harry carefully replaced the box in his cloak, but didn't turn to leave just then. "May I ask you a hypothetical question?"

"You may ask," Moody replied, his tone making it clear that he wasn't committing to an answer.

"If you wanted to find the Elder Wand, where would you start looking?"

"Ha!" Moody barked a laugh. "Storybooks, Potter. It's a myth."

"Assuming those legends are facts, though…"

"Well," Moody let out his breath in an explosive sigh. "If I was looking for the most famous wand in history, I'd probably start with an expert in wands."

Ollivander's shop always reminded Harry of a particular tiny bookstore that he used to visit in Little Whinging. The proprietor never cared to organize his books in any particular fashion, instead preferring to stack them haphazardly on every shelf and surface. The floor was not exempt, and the stacks of books made maneuvering around the shop a challenge. Yet the old shopkeeper knew exactly where every title was without fail, as if the chaotic explosion of literature was somehow an exact reflection of the organization of the man's mind.

It was much the same at Ollivander's. Hundreds, if not thousands of little rectangular boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, and arranged in no particular order that Harry could discern - yet the old wandmaker seemed to know each and every magical implement intimately, as if they called out to him when they wanted to be found. It always made Harry uncomfortable - he felt like he was intruding on the man's private sanctuary, a little corner of his brain that had been given form in the physical world.

"Ah, Mr. Potter!" Ollivander's reedy voice greeted him warmly, as it always did. "What brings you in today? Nothing wrong with your wand, I hope?"

"Oh - no, sir. It's been wonderful." Harry shut the door behind him with the soft tinkle of a bell.

"Good. I've always found that phoenix feather makes for an exceptionally reliable wand, if a bit more difficult to master. So - what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you know anything about...well, about the Elder Wand."

The kindly old wandmaker froze, and for a moment an expression

flickered across his lined face that Harry could have sworn was fear. It was gone as abruptly as it arrived, but it left Harry feeling tense.

"Why would you ask about a thing like that?" Ollivander's silver-eyed gaze was intense.

"I'm doing a research paper for Professor Binns," Harry lied smoothly, pretending to ignore the strange expression he had seen on Ollivander's face. "Anything you could tell me about the story would be helpful."

"Story?" Ollivander leaned closer, elbows propped up on the counter. "Some might consider the tale a mere story, but to those of us that have studied the wandlore it's far more than a story."

The wandmaker paused again, but the way he was looking at Harry made it clear that he had more to say. At length, Ollivander stepped from around the counter and came to stand before Harry. He placed a hand on his shoulder, regarding him seriously as he spoke.

"Harry...I wouldn't discuss this with just anyone, but you're a bit of a special case. Before I tell you anything, I need you to promise me that you won't go looking for the thing. The Elder Wand has a history steeped in blood, and no good can come from its use. Will you promise me that?"

Harry hesitated for only a moment.

"Of course, Mr. Ollivander." Harry felt a slight pang as he lied to the kindly old wandmaker a second time, but it passed quickly. "It's just for the paper, I promise."

"Alright, then." Ollivander nodded once, and stepped back. "Give me just a moment."

He disappeared into the back room, and Harry could hear the sounds of drawers being opened and shut as he searched for something. After a few moments of this Harry heard him exclaim in victory, and he returned to the main room of the shop bearing a leather bound notebook. It looked old - when he set it on the counter, Harry could see the cracks in the leather binding and smell the dusty scent of old parchment. It creaked when he opened it.

"As I said," Ollivander said, his voice hushed. "Its history is steeped in blood. You see, like any wand the Elder Wand chooses its master - but it chooses based on strength alone. One must defeat the current holder of the wand to claim it."

"I thought the wand made you unbeatable," Harry said, frowning.

"Not quite," Ollivander corrected, holding up a finger. "It's like a painter who, his entire life, has been painting with a broom. If he doesn't know any better he makes do, but give him a real paintbrush and suddenly he can do so much more. But...in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to paint, it isn't going to do him much good."

"So...it enhances your powers, then?" Harry was trying to wrap his head around it, and he thought he was starting to understand.

"To simplify it slightly, yes. The Elder Wand turns mediocre wizards into formidable duelists, and it can turn a truly powerful wizard into something nigh unto a God." Ollivander tapped his notes, watching Harry with a particular gleam in his silvery eyes. "I've tracked it as far through history as is possible. There are certain things to look for, you see, certain patterns that those who study the wandlore learn to recognize. The trail ends with a wizard named Loxias, who coined the name 'Deathstick'. Unfortunately, sources disagree on who ultimately defeated him, and the wand has been lost to us in recent years. There have been no sure signs for a hundred years, only rumors."

"Rumors?" Harry prompted. He had learned that rumors and hearsay were often all that pointed to the truth.

"Gregorovitch," Ollivander scoffed. "He fabricated a rumor that he'd found the thing back in the forties, to boost his sales. Just as quickly, he claimed someone stole it."

"Gregorovitch," Harry mused. "Where can I find him, sir?"

"I don't see why you'd want to," Ollivander sniffed, "But if you truly want to entertain his absurd lie I suppose you're in luck. He's retired, and the rumor is that he bought a flat in Carkitt Market, above Concordia Plunkett's."

Gregorovitch was, in many ways, the antithesis to Ollivander. While the wandmaker that Harry knew was soft-spoken and gentle, Gregorovitch was brash and loud. Even his appearance was a stark contrast to the slight, neatly-kempt Ollivander. Gregorovitch was tall and broad and bushy-bearded, and he completely filled the side of the booth that he shared with Harry and Hermione. He reminded Harry very much of a miniature Hagrid, if Hagrid had been about thirty years older. He'd agreed to meet them on the condition that it was at his favorite pub.

"I had it!" He boomed. His voice was thickly accented, and Harry found that he had to hang on his every word to have any hope of understanding the man. "I touched the Elder Wand. I performed magic with the Elder Wand. It should have been the crowning moment of my life, and instead it's made me a laughingstock. No one believes it."

"How did you get it, Mr. Gregorovitch?" Hermione leaned in close. Harry wasn't surprised to see that she was taking notes.

"Call me Mykew," he said, and paused for a drink. He'd ordered a tankard of something dark and pungent. "And don't ask questions to which you already know the answer. If you know anything about the Elder Wand, you know exactly how I got my hands on it."

The implication hung over the table like an unspoken threat, but Gregorovitch didn't seem to notice. He buried his nose in his tankard once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he set it back down.

"How did you lose it?" Harry pressed. Knowing where the wand had come from was purely academic, as far as Harry was concerned - what mattered was where it went.

"It was stolen," he muttered darkly. "From my very workshop, by a thief and a coward too afraid to face me down like a man."

"But how? By who?" Hermione's quill paused, poised to jot down his answer.

"If I knew that," he growled, "I would find the man and take it back. All I know is that he crept into my workshop and stunned me while my back was turned. I saw a flash of blonde hair, and then I was out - when I awoke, the Wand was gone."

"And when did you say this was, again?"

"A day that will be burned into my memory until I die. It was August the eighth, 1903."

"Harry! Harry, wake up!" A feminine voice startled Harry awake, and he opened his eyes to see the form of Hermione crouching by his bed.

"'Mione?" Harry's voice was thick with sleep, and he'd spoken a bit too loud - Neville muttered something and rolled over, and then was still again. Harry let out his breath slowly. "You're not allowed in here."

"Shh," she flapped a hand at him, silencing his protests. "I know who has the Elder Wand, Harry."

"What?" Harry was suddenly wide awake. "Who?"

"Gregorovitch lost the wand in the summer of 1903 to a blonde young man. That same winter, Gellert Grindelwald began his reign of terror in Eastern Europe. His rise to power was incredible, both in the scope of the magic he performed and the ease with which he defeated his enemies."

"Grindelwald was blonde?" Harry frowned.

"Yes! Harry, Grindelwald stole the wand from Gregorovitch."

"But Grindelwald was captured after he was defeated by…" Harry felt his blood turn to ice as he finally caught up to Hermione and connected the dots in his mind. "When he was defeated by Dumbledore."

It was a week before Harry got his chance. He had never realized how rarely Dumbledore left his office, and how unlikely it was to catch him alone. It didn't help that Harry didn't particularly want to go through with his plan, and it certainly didn't help that with each day that passed the little worm of doubt and fear gnawed a deeper pit into his belly. When his chance finally arrived, Harry was shaking like a leaf.

He knew that he wasn't safe, even beneath his invisibility cloak. Dumbledore had seen through it before, of course, without so much as waving his wand. The headmaster was dangerous, whether or not he was the Dark Lord, and what Harry was planning to do bordered on suicidal. He had no choice, he realized; if Dumbledore was who Harry truly hoped he was, Harry would be forgiven. And if he was what Harry feared he was, he would be doing the wizarding world a great service.

Any number of things could go wrong, of course. If Dumbledore caught him, he would be hard-pressed to explain why he was following the headmaster around beneath the cover of his cloak. If his spell failed to stun the Headmaster as he intended, he would be faced with the very real possibility of dueling Albus Dumbledore - not a possibility he relished in the slightest. The chance of Harry emerging as the victor in such a contest - even if Dumbledore didn't possess the Elder Wand - was so remote as to be considered absurd.

Still, Harry saw this is the final test. After tonight, he would finally know once and for all whether or not Dumbledore was the man he thought he was, or if he was the Dark Lord of prophecy. If nothing else, Harry took comfort in that fact.

When he saw Dumbledore striding down the corridor that led to the headmaster's office, Harry's blood turned to ice. He knew - or rather, Hermione had told him - that the gargoyles by the entry were enchanted to remove magical protections from anyone who passed. He also knew - again, from Hermione - that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was protected by extremely powerful magic while they were actually inside the office. He had a very narrow window - he had to stun the headmaster after he passed the gargoyles, but before he passed the threshold of the Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore was coming. He was humming to himself as he strode down the corridor.

"Chocolate Frog." Dumbledore's clear voice spoke the password, and the gargoyles stepped aside to allow him to pass. Harry raised his wand, the incantation already taking shape in his mouth.

"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore had just stepped past the Gargoyles when he turned to look directly at Harry with that familiar, placid smile. "I do hope you don't intend to attack me with that wand."

Harry froze. Several terrifying moments passed during which Harry found himself completely incapable of moving; at first he feared that Dumbledore had cast some manner of silent hex on him, but he soon realized that it was simply fear that had paralyzed him. Dumbledore was waiting patiently, expression unchanging. Feeling more than a little foolish, Harry shrugged out of his cloak and let it fall to the floor. He still held his wand tightly in quivering fingers.

"Hello, headmaster." Harry willed his voice to sound casual, and was surprised when it actually did.

"May I ask what you are doing?" Dumbledore asked politely, clasping his hands behind his back as he waited for Harry's answer.

"I was going to try to stun you and steal your wand," Harry admitted. It seemed as though there was little point in lying at that point.

"I see," Dumbledore said, using the same tone of voice he might have used if Harry had told him he was going to the bathroom. "Well, I must say that I'd rather prefer it if you didn't. May I ask why you feel as though you need to do this?"

"I think it's the Elder Wand...and I want to see if you're the true Dark Lord." Harry said. It sounded absurd, even to him, when he said it aloud.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. He hadn't moved from his place, just remained standing there calmly with his hands clasped behind his back. "That. I thought that you might feel the need to investigate young Barty Crouch's parting words to you."

"I knew about it before he said anything," Harry told him. His grip on his wand was weakening; Dumbledore's calm voice was stealing his resolve. "I found the prophecy, and it points to you."

"I see," Dumbledore said again, though this time his words were spoken with a bit more care. "In that case I can assume that you've examined this prophecy of yours against every living witch and wizard, and determined that only I fulfill it."

"All of the important ones, yeah." Harry felt a stab of irritation; Dumbledore was mocking him, he realized. Despite himself, he felt doubt knaw at the back of his mind. "I just - I just need to know for sure."

"I am not a Dark Lord," Dumbledore said simply, spreading his hands wide as if to show Harry that he wasn't working any nefarious spells behind his back.

How could he be? Dumbledore, the wisest and most powerful wizard Harry had ever met. Dumbledore who had watched over him from the very beginning, the same Dumbledore who had helped Harry through the difficult times he'd faced in his first three years. For a moment, Harry felt like a foolish child - ungrateful and disloyal.

Until he saw a centimeter of polished wood protruding from his sleeve. Harry had never noticed the clusters of elderberries that decorated the dark wood of Dumbledore's wand.

Harry shouted 'Expelliarmus!' at the same moment that Dumbledore dropped his wand into his hand; the headmaster's wand clattered to the floor between the two wizards. For the briefest of moments, Dumbledore's placid expression flickered into something else - something hateful and angry. Just as soon as it had appeared, Dumbledore's face rearranged itself into a more familiar configuration. It left Harry with that same chill from before - Harry very much doubted that he could defeat even a wandless Dumbledore in a duel. Fortunately for him, he wouldn't have to.

"What the blazes - " Professor McGonagall came jogging around the corner with her skirts held in one hand, wand held at the ready in her other. "Who is casting charms in the hallway at this hour?"

"No cause for alarm, Minerva." Dumbledore smiled. "I was simply giving Harry some pointers on the Disarming Charm. He seems to have mastered it, as you can see."

Dumbledore stooped to retrieve his wand at the same time that Harry reached down to snatch up his cloak; Harry didn't miss the way the headmaster's eyes met his own as he arose.

"Well, practice is always encouraged, of course," McGonagall was replacing her wand inside her robes, but a confused frown lingered on her face. "Perhaps next time we might find a more appropriate place for Mr. Potter's studies than the middle of the corridor?"

"You're quite right, Minerva, as usual." Dumbledore agreed readily.. "It seems I was caught up in Harry's enthusiasm for self-improvement." Dumbledore nodded, and it seemed to be the cue for Professor McGonagall to move on.

"Well, then, if everything is - "

"Professor!" Harry practically yelled over her as he replaced his own wand. "Would you mind walking with me? To the dormitory? I wanted to ask you about - erm, about the assignment."

"And which assignment would that be, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall fixed Harry with a withering gaze. "If I recall correctly, you don't have any outstanding assignments for my class."

"That's just it. I...I was hoping for something extra, that is to increase my Transfiguration skills…"

"Ah, I see Ms. Granger must be rubbing off on you." Professor McGonagall's face brightened. "Of course, I'm sure I can think of something - off we go, then, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," The headmaster cut in before he could leave, fixing him with the same kindly smile that he always seemed to wear for the Boy Who lived.

"Yes, headmaster?"

"I underestimated you," he said, nodding towards the legendary wand that he held between his fingers once again. "I daresay that your enemies will only ever make that mistake once. Do keep that in mind."

"I will, headmaster." Harry returned Dumbledore's piercing gaze unflinchingly even as he felt icy terror shoot through his veins.

Harry didn't dare look back, but he could feel Dumbledore's eyes boring into him long after he and Professor McGonagall left.

The entire way back to his dormitory, Harry had to fight the urge to vomit. He was trembling so badly that Professor McGonagall twice asked him if he was feeling alright; despite his assurances that he was, she sent him up to his bed with some hot tea that she conjured for him. Harry clutched the mug to his chest, more to stop the incessant tremors in his hands than for any real need of it. He was having difficulty thinking; fragmented thoughts drifted unbidden through his mind, refusing to come together in coherent combinations.

He knows I know. Does he? That was the Elder Wand. He has it, and he knows. I have to do twelve inches on Transfiguration for McGonagall.

Dumbledore is the Dark Lord.

Harry sipped his conjured tea as he climbed the steps to his dormitory. His limbs were leaden, heavy with fatigue and fear. There was nowhere in Hogwarts that was safe, now - nowhere he could go where Dumbledore couldn't reach him. Would he try to kill him? Silence him? Harry could only guess. He didn't know Dumbledore; only the man that he had pretended to be.

He did his best to force such thoughts out of his head, and with a sigh he set his bag down on the edge of his bed carefully to avoid disturbing the girl who was lounging there.

Harry froze. There was a girl on his bed.

She was lying on her belly, wearing a white dress that reminded Harry of something his grandmother would have worn, but she couldn't have been much older than he was. Her hair was long and black, caught in braids that neatly framed her pale face, and she was idly flipping through Harry's copy of Transfiguration Today. Her wings - only now did Harry notice them - looked as if they were made of blue fire, flickering and shifting but more or less maintainig a constant form. She looked up when Harry set his things down.

"Oh, he's here!" The girl smiled; she seemed to be speaking to a grinning white skull that was propped up next to her, and when she looked up at Harry she wore a brilliant smile. "Hello, master."


	3. Chapter 3

"Who are you, then?" Harry's capacity for shock had been rather exhausted by this point. The words had escaped in a sigh, exasperation weighing his tone.

"She won't leave." Sarchanie's triangular head appeared over the canopy of his bed, and she dropped down gracefully to land on his shoulder. "She popped into existence and disturbed my nap. She smells wrong."

"I don't smell like anything," the winged girl said, a small frown creasing her smooth brow. The way she glared at the dragon suggested the creature's words had wounded her.

"That's the problem," Sarchanie curled her tail around Harry's neck, glaring daggers at the interloper.

"Right...who are you, then?" Harry tried again, his tone easing up. Despite Sarchanie's warnings, the girl had yet to cause any trouble. As far as he could see, she was just a normal girl - no different than Hermione or Ginny. The human skull was of course an eerie touch, but Harry could only hope it wasn't real.

"I have a lot of names," she chimed, and began ticking them off on her fingers. "Mot, Thanatos, Śmierć, Hel, Santa Muerte - "

"What shall I call you, then?" Harry interrupted - it seemed like she could go on for a while.

"You'll know me as Death, I think." The girl's expression never changed. Her round eyes only looked up at him, portraying nothing but innocence.

"Death...right." It took him a moment, but slowly Harry's mind connected the dots. "The Hallows - "

"That's right," she cut in, nodding. She was stroking the yellowed skull, cradling it in her arms like a child. "You've mastered them, and thus - me."

"But I didn't master the wand," Harry objected with a frown. "Dumbledore still has it."

"He may possess it, but you've won its allegiance." She tilted her head and regarded him for an awkward, silent moment. Something about that gaze made Harry uncomfortable, chilled to the bone. "You're very young, aren't you?"

"I'm fifteen," Harry said, unable to keep the defensive tone from creeping into his voice. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Old," she replied with a bored sigh, and nodded down at her skull. "Older than him."

"You don't look very old."

"And you don't look very bright, but appearances can be deceiving, no?" Her quip was sharp, but before Harry could assume it was offensive, she flashed him a cheeky grin; it extended even, to her eyes.

Harry was certain that he heard Sarchanie stifle a serpentine chuckle, but when he looked at her she was curiously absorbed with inspecting the curtains that hung around his bed.

"Good one," Harry replied in a mirthless monotone. "So...what are you doing in my bed, exactly?"

"Waiting for you, of course." She said it as though it should have been obvious. "You're my master, now. I'm bound to follow your orders."

"So you're - a slave? A servant?" Harry frowned, trying to wrap his head around it. When he had learned that uniting the Hallows would make him the master of Death, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

"In a manner of speaking," Death's brow creased in another frown at Harry's choice of words. "It's a bit more complicated than that. I'm bound to follow your orders, but I still have my purpose to carry out. Nothing I do for you can interfere with that."

"You mean killing people."

"Guiding souls across the veil," she countered. This time her smile did not reach her eyes. "They're already dead when they come to me."

"So you can't kill anyone for me," Harry didn't bother to hide the disappointment that colored his voice. "That would have made my life a bit easier."

"Albus Dumbledore is beyond my reach," she admitted, discerning Harry's intent. "I can only claim those who are rightfully mine."

"Those who should be dead," Harry clarified. "The ones who have cheated you."

"There are not many who can make that claim," she said. Her tone sent a chill down Harry's spine.

"So...what can you do for me, then?" Harry asked bluntly. "I can't exactly have a winged...death-girl following me around to my classes, now can I?"

"I only appear to those whom I choose," she said. "And there is much I can do. I can see the unseen, command magics long lost to wizardkind, and pierce the veil at a whim. And while I belong to you, you can never belong to me."

"You're saying I can't die," Harry said carefully.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was as cold as the grave. "It is not a blessing, Harry Potter. Death is natural, and right. Horrible things happen to those who do not die when they are meant to."

"What kinds of things?"

"It is not my place to know." Her fingers trailed over her skull, a lover's caress that lingered on empty eye sockets. "Those who defy me are...lost. They may never pass through the veil, but neither do they truly belong here."

"Where do they belong?"

"Somewhere else," she said with a shrug. The answer clearly didn't interest her.

A question was weighing heavily on Harry's mind, and he had expended nearly all of his willpower by not asking it. Finally, it was too much.

"My parents…can you? The stone..."

"The stone can recreate their bodies, but Lily and James Potter are gone." There was no warmth in her voice, no comfort. But neither was there malice. "Their souls have shed the burdens of this world, ego and id. What remains of them is unknowable to you now."

Harry nodded, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. He didn't speak.

"I am sorry," Death said, and her expression softened into something that resembled sympathy. "The pain of this world is fleeting, as are its pleasures. Soon you too will shed the shackles that bind you to this place, and forget your parents along with everyone else you know."

"That isn't exactly comforting," Harry said, his voice flat.

"Forgive me," Death said, her gaze dropping to Harry's bed sheets. "I am not well-versed in human emotions."

"Did...did you make the Hallows, then?" Harry asked, eager to change the subject.

"No," She replied. Her finger was lazily tracing her skull's eye socket. "Not exactly. They are a part of me, and they have taken many forms over the years. The Hallows as they are known now were bound into their current physical forms by wizards using magic as old as the bones of the Earth."

"Wizards? Who?"

Death simply shrugged.

"Why were they made?"

"It's not my place to know that, Harry."

Harry was quiet for a moment, trying to process all that had happened in the span of a few hours. After a few minutes spent wrestling with the problem, Harry gave it up as a bad job and collapsed into his bed beside Death. He could deal with her, and Dumbledore, and everything else that had been piled up on him tomorrow. For now, all he could think about was sleep. Sarchanie glided down alongside him, searching for her favorite spot to curl up. She gave Death a wide berth.

"I'm going to go to sleep, now." He declared, and shut his eyes.

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Harry awoke slowly the next morning. He clambered to consciousness awkwardly, clawing his way up from the depths of sleep inch by inch. Strange dreams had plagued his rest; the details eluded him but he knew that he was searching, always searching, and never finding what he was looking for. He lay awake for some time, not quite ready to open his eyes. He told himself that perhaps it was all just a dream; Dumbledore, Death, even Sarchanie and the Tournament...perhaps he would wake up at the start of term, and be able to watch the Tournament with the rest of the fourth years like a normal student.

He couldn't help be heave a sigh at that thought. His career at Hogwarts had never resembled anything approaching 'normal', and he saw no reason for it to start now. With a wrench of willpower, Harry pried his lids open. A pair of pupil-less white eyes were staring back at him, inches from his face. Harry wrestled with the urge to cry out, and instead slowly levered himself to a seating position. Death mirrored his movements, and sat across from him at the foot of his bed. Sarchanie was still sleeping, snoring softly in her little nest by Harry's pillow.

"Good morning, Death."

"Good morning, Harry." Her voice retained that sing-song quality, and Harry found himself wondering how anyone could be so cheerful at such an early hour.

"Were you...erm, were you watching me sleep all night?"

"Yes," she answered without a hint of self-consciousness. "You toss and turn a lot while you sleep, did you know that?"

"Who're you talking to, Harry?" Neville was rolling out of bed, the left side of his face red and lined from where he'd slept on the corner of his Herbology book.

"Just Sarchanie," Harry lied.

"Oh." Neville's gaze traveled directly through Death to where the still-sleeping Sarchanie was curled up. "Right, then. See you at breakfast, Harry."

"Don't watch me sleep anymore," Harry whispered once Neville had gone. "It's very, very creepy."

"Oh." A small frown creased Death's face, but she nodded. "Very well."

"Thanks," Harry said. "Well, I suppose I'd best get some breakfast."

Harry stood, and began pulling off his pyjamas when something made him stop. Death was watching him with the same serene expression that she always wore, her skull clutched protectively to her chest.

"Er...do you mind?" Harry asked.

"Oh, not at all." Death nodded for him to continue.

"I mean...could you turn around?"

"Oh," Death said. A puzzled expression crossed her face, but she obeyed. "This is modesty, yes? I've never understood it. You're all naked when you come to me."

"You're a right ray of sunshine, aren't you?" Harry frowned as he dressed himself as quickly as he could manage. "Most people don't like to talk about death."

"I know," Death said, her shoulders sagging slightly. "I don't understand why. It's as natural as birth."

"Well - " Harry grimaced as he struggled with his tie. "It scares people. No one knows for sure what's on the other side."

"Does it scare you?"

"Yeah," Harry answered, his fingers pausing at his throat. "Yeah, it does."

"Is that why you were looking for the Hallows, Harry?"

"No," he answered, finally managing a knot that wasn't too sloppy-looking. "I'm just trying to do the right thing. Stop someone that I think is going to hurt a lot of people."

"It doesn't matter, you know." The matter-of-fact tone in her voice made Harry scowl.

"Of course it matters," he protested. "Why would you say that?"

"Nothing that happens here matters." Death shrugged, one slender finger tracing the eye socket of her skull. "You soul is cleansed of this place when you pass on, Harry."

"I don't believe that," Harry said firmly. "I can't. You're telling me that nothing we do here matters? None of our actions, good or evil, affect what comes after?"

"I don't know what lies beyond the veil," Death admitted. "I only know that in order to cross, a soul must shed its ties to this place. Release its burdens. They come to me confused, scared, angry – and when they cross the veil, they are cleansed. Pure."

"So the afterlife is a mystery even to Death." Somehow that made Harry feel better, and he could feel a slow smile spreading on his face. "That's kind of funny."

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Leaving the dormitory took some effort; in fact, he procrastinated to the point that he missed breakfast. Quite frankly, he was terrified – there was nowhere in the school that he could go where Dumbledore would not find him, and now that the headmaster was aware of what Harry knew there could be little doubt that Dumbledore was already plotting against him. Only Sarchanie's reminder that he was no safer in the dormitory than anywhere else got him moving at last. He silently berated himself as he threw on his robes and gathered his things for his first class; he'd missed his chance to fill Hermione in on what had happened, and now it would have to wait. He wouldn't have a chance to talk to her until lunch, now.

The thought of telling Ron about his confrontation with Dumbledore filled Harry with dread. He was so steadfast in his support of the headmaster that he refused to see any evidence to the contrary; Harry doubted that even the testimony of his best friend would sway him. Harry had felt a rift opening up between them since the beginning of the year, and it seemed as if it was only getting wider. He had little time to worry about that with all that was going on, and he firmly placed that concern in the back of his mind.

It had taken Harry a few weeks to get used to attending his classes with a miniature dragon riding on his shoulder. He didn't mind the stares or the crowds that had followed him, hoping for a chance to touch his new 'pet' – awkward though it was, Harry Potter was no stranger to that sort of attention. Rather, the most difficult aspect of his newfound friend had been her constant commentary, hissed into his ear where only he could hear it. He'd just gotten to the point where he could filter it out when his bizarre mastery over Death had thrown yet another wrench into his routine.

"No, that's not right." She was standing at Harry's left elbow, peering over his shoulder at the notes he was taking. "Professor Snape said the newt liver should be minced, not chopped."

"Right, thanks." Harry whispered as he scratched out the error and wedged in the correction.

"Mr. Potter," Snape's sardonic voice sent Harry's heart leaping into his throat. "I've grown accustomed to you whispering in my class, but now it seems you've nothing better to do than talk to yourself. Be silent."

"Sorry, Professor." Harry mumbled, his eyes glued to his notes. He felt his cheeks burning as a wave of muffled laughter swept over him.

"Just explain to him that you're talking to me," Death said.

Harry ignored her, and instead tried to focus on what Snape was saying. To his left, he caught Hermione throwing him a questioning glance, but he put that out of his mind as well. Frankly, he was glad for the opportunity to focus on something that wasn't life-threatening, even if his only distraction came in the form of Snape's sneers and thinly-veiled insults. Frankly, with his O.W.L.'s rapidly approaching, there was little time for him to be concerned about much else besides his schoolwork. For a little while, at least, Harry felt like a normal student.

The rest of the class passed more or less without incident. He managed to ignore both Death's and Sarchanie's commentary and scribbled notes that had a fairly decent chance of being accurate. When the chime sounded and dismissed the class to lunch, Harry's troubles came rushing back in. The students all piled out of the dungeon classroom in a babbling throng, and Harry craned his neck over their heads to search for Hermione. He spied her walking next to Ron, laughing at something he'd said. Harry threaded his way through the stream of students and laid his hand on her elbow.

"Hey," he said, his voice hushed. "I need to talk to you."

"Alright," she said, glancing at Ron to her right.

"Alright," Ron echoed after waiting a moment to see if Harry's invitation included him. "Catch you later, Hermione."

"Harry," Hermione was watching Ron leave, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "What's going on between you and Ron?"

"I don't have time for that right now," Harry hissed. "Come on."

The mazelike dungeons of Hogwarts weren't a place Harry visited often, at least not when he could help it. He had to admit, however, that the labyrinthine corridors were practically designed to offer students inconspicuous places to have dangerous conversations. Harry led Hermione down a disused passageway, and pulled her into a nook framed by a roughly-hewn stone archway.

"Dumbledore has the elder wand. He knows that I know he's a dark lord. And I'm the master of Death." The words that Harry had been itching to say all day tumbled out of his mouth in a heap.

"What?" Hermione asked, her face screwed up in confusion.

"I thought she was supposed to be smart?" Death said from just behind Harry.

"Who is that?" Hermione yelped.

"You can see her?" Harry blinked.

"Of course I can!"

"I told you," Death said, rapping her knuckles on her skull. "I can appear to whomever I chose."

"This is Death," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "This is what being the 'Master of Death" means, apparently."

"Okay..." Hermione said slowly, eyeing Death nervously. "Maybe you ought to start at the beginning."

It took the better part of an hour for Harry to fill her in on all that had happened. He explained everything; Dumbledore, the Wand, the timely arrival of Professor McGonagall and, finally, Dumbledore's parting words. Hermione stood silently for a moment, processing all that Harry had told her with her hands crossed over her chest. When she finally spoke, she spoke to Death.

"Can you protect him?" She asked intently. "From Dumbledore?"

"I can," she said, though her tone made it clear that it wasn't quite so simple.

"But?" Hermione pressed.

"I can't take any action against him," she admitted. "He doesn't belong to me."

"What about Voldemort?" She asked. To Harry's surprise, he'd nearly forgotten about the dark wizard who, at one time, had been his greatest threat.

"That one," Death's knuckles turned white as she gripped her skull. "Not many can say that they have cheated Death. His soul is broken and hidden from me. It is mine."

"Broken?" Harry asked.

"Old, forbidden magic," Death explained. "He has split his soul, and placed the fragments into objects for safekeeping."

"Hermione, I don't know what to do." Harry's voice sounded helpless even to his own ears. "Everything is happening at once and I'm not even sure where to start dealing with it all."

"We need help," Hermione admitted. "What about Professor Moody? He owes you his life, he might be inclined to listen to you."

"If I had proof," Harry said with a frown. "All I have right now is my word against Dumbledore's."

"We need to talk to someone close to him," Hermione mused. "Someone who might know what he's really after."

"What about his brother?" Death suggested.

"Dumbledore has a brother?" Harry asked incredulously.

"He does. He runs an inn in the nearby village."

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The Hogs Head Inn was a squalid little place, nothing more than a single room with a few mismatched tables and chairs strewn about carelessly. It was very nearly as filthy as the Gaunt shack; dirt encrusted the windows, the floors, and every other available surface. Harry was almost positive that he saw some sort of insect scurrying away from the light when they opened the door, but he didn't dare tell Hermione – her face already wore a look of muted horror. It seemed an altogether strange place to find the brother of the greatest wizard who ever lived.

Albus Dumbledore commanded the attention of anyone sharing room with him, his mere presence an announcement of his mastery. The headmaster was serene and confident, every action measured and precisely executed. One knew, just by bearing near him, that Albus would know what to do in nearly any situation. When he spoke, his voice captivated and commanded effortlessly. If Aberforth Dumbledore had even one of these qualities, he hid it extremely well.

He had seen him before, of course, but Harry had never paid the barman of the Hog's Head Inn much attention. He had the appearance, Harry thought, of a tired goat; pinched and thin, with a long scraggly beard and thinning grey hair. Yet, as Harry sat across from Aberforth Dumbledore, he saw his eyes for the first time. They were a familiar, piercing blue, yet weighed down by a burden that Harry thought he could understand.

"You know," said the brother of Albus Dumbledore, "Not many students come in here, but you're the first to want to talk to me in about forty years."

"Why?" Hermione asked with a frown. "Surely someone has wanted to talk to Albus Dumbledore's brother."

"Albus Dumbledore's brother," Aberforth echoed bitterly, staring sullenly into the bottom of his mug. "Albus prefers to pretend that we're not related, and that suits me just fine. I'd prefer to be something besides Albus Dumbledore's brother, even if it's just the barman at the Hog's Head."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend." Hermione grimaced as she looked down at her butterbeer.

"One student did come searching for me, though." Aberforth continued as if Hermione hadn't spoken. "Nice enough young fellow, though a bit intense. Name of Tom Riddle."

Harry froze at the name.

"Voldemort came here asking you questions about Dumbledore?"

"I'm Dumbledore." Aberforth scowled at Harry, and drained the rest of his tankard. "And yes. Back when he was a student, he came her asking about Albus."

"What did he want to know?"

"Same as you, I expect. Wanted to know about what had happened with Grindelwald."

"The duel, you mean." Hermione leaned in intently.

"That hadn't happened, yet. You mean you really don't know? About Albus and Grindelwald?"

Harry and Hermione looked at one another and shook their heads.

"Oh, blimey." Aberforth sighed, and hauled himself to his feet. "I'm going to need another drink for this."

Harry and Hermione waited as Aberforth made his slow way to the bar. He didn't move like Dumbledore; the headmaster always seemed to stride about with purpose, but Aberforth shuffled towards the bar like a man who simply had nothing better to do. He poured himself another ale, filling the dirty glass to the brim and licking the foam from the top before he returned.

"Right," he said with a groan as he lowered himself back into the both opposite from Harry and Hermione. "Well, you'll be knowing who Grindelwald is, then?"

"He was a dark wizard," Harry said with impatience coloring his voice. He wasn't quite sure what this all had to do with Dumbledore.

"He was the dark wizard." Aberforth's voice had grown dark. "He was my generation's You-Know-Who, and the jury's still out on which one of 'em was worse. He had a notion that wizards shouldn't hide from muggles – we should rule them. He thought it was for their own good, see; wizardkind could protect the muggles from the darker forces out there."

"And I'm sure that the muggles would be happy to do the manual labor that was beneath us wizards," Hermione said coldly.

"I doubt they'd be happy about it, but that was his idea all right." Aberforth nodded once, and paused for a deep gulp of ale. "Anyway, turns out that this notion of his was fairly popular. He got a lot of support, from a lot of people you might not expect. Including my brother."

"Hold on," Harry said, frowning. "You're telling me that Dumbledore was working with Grindelwald?"

"At first, yeah." Aberforth shrugged as if it was common knowledge. "They made a lot of plans together, spent months huddled over their notes and books back in Godric's Hollow. He might of gone all the way, too, if not for me."

"What happened?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

"I told him that it was nonsense," Aberforth said firmly. "Our father'd already served time in Azkaban for attacking muggles, we didn't need more of that talk about our family. Told him that he needed to stay home, take care of our Ariana. Albus didn't listen, just brushed me off, but Grindelwald..."

Aberforth shook his head, his eyes far away.

"Cruciatus curse." The old man swallowed heavily, the memory of that terrible pain haunting his eyes. "I don't remember much of what happened after that, on account of the pain, but Albus attacked him. Some shred of brotherly love, perhaps, or part of some greater scheme. Whatever the reason, there was a duel – I got involved in it, once my head had cleared – and when it was over, my dear sister – my little Ariana was dead. Grindelwald fled and started making moves in Eastern Europe, and Albus didn't waste any time in leaving, either. The rest, as they say..."

Aberforth shrugged and left the idiom unfinished.

"But..." Harry still didn't understand. "Dumbledore – Er, Professor Dumbledore – he defeated Grindelwald, didn't he?"

"Aye, he did." Aberforth nodded once more. "He didn't have much of a choice. He was the only one strong enough to stop him, and he'd done nothing for far too long. Make no mistake – Albus always has a plan. I'd wager a galleon that he never gave up on those dreams – the idea that wizards should rule over muggles. That mind of his never lets go of an idea once he latches on to it. But Grindelwald was too..."

"He was too cruel," Hermione cut in when Aberforth began struggling for words. "Dumbledore knew that Grindelwald would never unite wizardkind because of his methods. Dumbledore doesn't want to take over the Ministry, he wants to bend it to his purpose, make everyone think that it was their idea all along. God - "

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"I was just reading – old ministry records."

"Why on earth were you reading old Ministry records?" Harry asked, but his question was ignored.

"Sixteen years ago, the Ministry enacted a bill called the Frownden Act. I didn't think much of it at first, but..." She paused and shook her head. "It allows the Ministry to enact a kind of...marshal law over the muggles in extreme circumstances where there is a magical threat that can not be contained. Place their leaders under the Imperius Curse and use their governments to control them. It was named after the head of the department of Magical Law enforcement, but the article said that without Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore's support, the bill never would have passed."

"So?" Harry frowned. "Isn't protecting muggles a good thing?"

"Can't you see?" Hermione's voice was taking on the shrill edge of panic. "It's a foundation. Say there's a magical crisis – one large enough to threaten all of Muggle Britain. Or the entire world. What then, with this new law?"

"Well, I suppose we'd step in and stop whatever the crisis is," Harry said with a shrug. "Move the muggles to safe places, things like that."

"We would tell the muggles what to do in order to be safe," she countered. "And when do we stop telling them what to do?"

"When the crisis is over," Harry said, but now his voice was tinged with uncertainty.

"When we decide the crisis is over." Hermione shook her head slowly. "And what was happening about fifteen years ago?"

"You-know-who was at the peak of his power." Aberforth cut in. His knuckles were white as he gripped his mug.

"A threat that was on the brink of spilling over into the muggle world if Harry hadn't stopped it," Hermione went on, slapping the table with her hand. "Just like Grindelwald might have, if Dumbledore hadn't been forced to stop him. Why else would he have waited so long? Why would he have let You-Know-Who become so powerful, when he could have defeated him at any point?"

"He wants a crisis," Harry said slowly. "He wants something that will give wizards a reason to take control of the muggles."

"That's the Albus I know," Aberforth said. "Always scheming, always plotting – and always coming out on the other end looking like a saint."

"If you knew this about your brother, why didn't you say anything?" Harry asked, incredulous.

"Me?" Aberforth snorted derisively. "Who's gonna take my word – a half-literate barman – over the great Albus Dumbledore's?"

"You could have tried," Harry said firmly.

"I could have gotten myself killed, just like Ariana." Aberforth scoffed. "It's no coincidence that she died in that duel – I'm not saying Albus planned it, but he's cold, boy. And he know show to seize an opportunity. She was holding him back, and he knew it – so he took care of it."

Harry shook his head slowly.

"We need proof," Harry said, falling back against his seat with a sigh. "You're right, no one will believe us if it comes to his word against ours. But there has to be proof out there, somewhere."

"I have something that might help," Aberforth said after a moment. "Wait here."

The two of them watched him stand up and disappear into the back room of the dingy little pub. When he was out of earshot, Harry leaned in and spoke in an urgent, hushed tone.

"Hermione, should we even believe him? I mean, after what Dumbledore said to me – and the Elder Wand – but to think that he's behind some sort of plot to take over the muggles - "

"He's not lying," Death cut in and made Harry yelp with surprise – she hadn't shown herself the entire time that they'd been in the Hog's Head.

"How do you know?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed.

"I can...see it?" Death tilted her head, searching for the right word. "He's...broken. He doesn't care enough to lie."

"Here we are," Aberforth said as he emerged from the back room. "Knew I had it somewhere."

The old barman returned to the table carrying a small cylindrical bundle wrapped in dingy, moth-eaten cloth, which he laid carefully down on the middle of the table. He unwrapped it slowly, laying the cloth out with care until they could see what was wrapped up within. It was a scroll, the parchment yellowed and cracked with age. He held it out to them, and Harry took it in trembling fingers. He unrolled it gingerly, wincing each time the parchment cracked and little plumes of dust were shaken free. When he laid it flat, both Harry and Hermione leaned in to read.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm writing to thank you for your guidance and mentorship throughout my years at Hogwarts. Your willingness to expand my education beyond the, shall we say, 'traditional curriculum' will no doubt be the foundation upon which I build my power. I will take our vision of a greater Wizardkind to new heights, farther and greater than any wizard before me. The muggle-born boy you once tutored is no more, and in his place is reborn something far greater. Join me when the time comes, and you will have an honored place in my new world.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

I am Lord Voldemort

"Where did you get this?" Harry asked quietly, his eyes still flitting over the words on the page.

"I stole it," Aberforth admitted without hesitation. "In the early days of the First Wizarding War. We had something of a secret society, an underground resistance movement against You-Know-Who. Albus was in charge. The war...it was going badly. The Death-Eaters always seemed to be one step ahead of us, like they knew our every move almost before we made it. We knew there was a spy in our midst, but no one suspected Albus. No one but me. I stole that letter, read it, and realized what it meant."

"Dumbledore groomed Voldemort," Hermione said, shaking her head. "He created the most terrible dark wizard of all time just so we would have something to fight against. Something that would unite Wizardkind and give him an excuse to enact the Frownden Act."

"This letter..." Harry rolled it carefully, and wrapped it once more in the dingy cloth. "I don't know if it will be enough. How can we prove that it's genuine?"

"There's magic that can verify a person's handwriting," Hermione said. "I don't know it, but..."

"We know someone who might." Harry said as a slow smile spread on his face. "An ex-auror who owes me a favor. And he's just paranoid enough to believe this."

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"No." Mad-Eye Moody was pacing behind his desk, and he shook the letter in Harry's face as he spoke. "Absolutely not. Do you have any idea who you're talking about? Do you have any idea what that man has done for us – all of us, you included?"

"I know it's hard to believe, but - " Hermione wasn't able to finish her sentence.

"Hard to believe?" Moody hissed, leaning over his desk. "It's not possible. We would all be dead if not for Albus Dumbledore, or worse."

"Can't you verify that Voldemort wrote the letter?" Harry nodded at the faded parchment. "Isn't there a spell that will tell you?"

"There is," Moody said between gritted teeth. "And what if the spell reveals that Voldemort did write it? The Dark Lord would stop at nothing to discredit Dumbledore, to drive a wedge between us. And now it's working, you're letting him win by believing this nonsense."

"This is what Dumbledore wants," Harry burst out, rising to his feet. "He wants us to trust in him so completely, so blindly, that the mere thought of questioning him is ridiculous. Can't you see how dangerous that is?"

The old auror stopped in his pacing and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Hermione cut him off.

"All of the pieces fit. The Prophecy, Grindelwald, the Frownden Act, the Elder Wand, now this - please, Professor Moody, you can't ignore it."

Moody growled, a low guttural sound that came from somewhere within his chest. Yet, Harry knew, the old auror knew they were right. Too much was at stake to simply ignore what they had brought him. With a sigh, he threw the parchment down on his desk and drew his wand.

"Delensrevelo," he barked.

A golden beam of light shot from his wand and struck the letter. The aged parchment seemed to quiver as the shaft of light enveloped it, as if reluctant to give up its secrets, but finally the light puffed into a golden mist and floated up to form letters in the air before Moody's face. They were backwards from Harry's perspective, but he could read them well enough.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Fine." Moody snarled, and he waved away the words with one scarred hand. "Fine. I'll look into it. Give me a few days – for the love of God, don't do anything stupid. Don't ask any more questions about him, don't talk to him, don't look at him if you can help it. If you're wrong – and you'd better pray to every God that you are – you've got nothing to worry about. But if you're right – well. I don't have to tell you how much danger you're in. Now get out, I have work to do."

Harry and Hermione did as they were bade and left Moody's office, closing the door softly behind them and shutting out the old auror's incessant stream of curses.

"What do we do now?" Harry said, frowning.

"Nothing," Hermione said. "Harry, we need to trust Moody. He's been doing this for a long time."

"I know, it's just..." Harry led them out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and into the corridor as he spoke. "I feel like I can't trust anyone, anymore."

"You can trust me," Hermione said, taking his hand between both of hers. "And I think we can trust Moody."

"Right," he said with a sigh. "Okay."

"Besides," Hermione said with a small smile spreading on her face. "You're behind on your homework, the second task is in three days, and oh...there's one other thing."

"What is it?" Harry said, feeling the crushing weight of his responsibilities settle squarely on his shoulders.

"It's been too long since we've done this."

Hermione stood up on her tiptoes and cupped the back of Harry's neck with her hand, pulling him down to her waiting lips. Harry felt her melt into him, and his arms slipped around her waist without conscious thought. All of his burdens seemed to be washed away in that kiss, replaced with some purer, baser impulse. He pulled her in close, feeling her hips press against his in a way that lit his every nerve on fire. In an instant Harry had lost himself, pressing Hermione firmly against the cool stones of the wall as their kiss deepened.

"What are you doing?" Death's voice was quiet, but it may as well have been a gunshot.

"For the love of - " Harry and Hermione sprang apart, and Harry whirled on Death with a scowl. "Don't do that. Don't you have anything better to do than spy on me?"

"No," Death said, tilting her head curiously. "Well, that is to say that I can spy on you while I'm doing other things as well. Being here doesn't really take up much of my attention."

"Brilliant," Harry said, irritability creeping into his tone. "Can you just – bugger off for a bit?"

It was only after she had vanished that Harry felt bad about what he had said. Harry turned to Hermione once more, but the moment had been ruined. He sighed and took her hand, gently leading her down the corridor that led to the Gryffindor common room and doing his best to ignore the way his heart was pounding. Hermione had a distinctly flushed look, but apart from the color in her cheeks she displayed no indication that their kiss had affected her.

"That was rather rude," Hermione said quietly after a moment, though the soft smile she offered him took the bite out of her words.

"It was," Harry said, grinning in return. "She did choose a rather inconvenient time to appear though, didn't she?"

"I daresay she did." Hermione hid a smile behind her hand.

"I don't know what I'm going to do about the second task," Harry admitted as they walked hand in hand. "Two weeks away, and all I've got is that useless hint from Cedric. Take a bath? How is that supposed to help me?"

"Maybe you should do it," Hermione shrugged, and slipped her arm through his as she drew him closer. "It couldn't hurt."

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It was late. Harry knew he should sleep, but her knew that sleep would not find him that night. His mind whirled with detached thoughts, vague worries flowing through his brain like sludge. He stared at the parchment that was unfurled in his lap. His scribbled handwriting seemed undulate before his very eyes, letter and words that stubbornly refused to form into coherent sentences. With a groan, he realized that his last paragraph had been comprised of complete gibberish.

Harry threw his quill down in disgust. He spent only a moment moping with his face in his hands before that little voice inside of him reminded him that he had too much to do to be sitting around feeling sorry for himself. It took him only a moment to find the egg and tuck it into his robes, and with his invisibility cloak tightly wrapped around his shoulders he set out towards the prefect's bathroom that Cedric had recommended.

He found it to be deserted, as he'd hoped; he shut and locked the door behind him to ensure that it stayed that way. He had to admit that it was quite grand, as far as bathrooms went. The massive tub in the center of the room was bigger than some swimming pools that Harry had seen back on Privet drive, ringed almost completely by gleaming golden taps. Each tap was capped with a different colored gem; Harry wasn't quite sure what they meant, so he selected a few at random and waited for the tub to fill. Each tap dispensed hot water treated with some manner of foaming bath the same color as the gem.

Harry examined the window while he waited. It was a vast stained glass depiction of a mermaid, enchanted in such a way that she appeared to be brushing her hair and fanning her fins. He didn't have much time to examine the piece, though; he had no sooner looked away from the tub than the golden taps closed themselves. When he returned his attention to the bath, he saw that it was full. With a shrug, he disrobed and stepped gingerly into the hot water, golden egg in hand.

With a deep sigh, Harry leaned back against the smooth stone wall. There were little seats formed into the sides, making it easy to relax against the edge of the tub and lay his head back against the rim. The bathwater smelled vaguely of fresh strawberries. Harry soon found his eyes drifting shut as the gentle lapping of the water soothed him to the brink of sleep.

"I don't want to startle you." Death's voice was soft, and Harry looked up to see her sitting in the tub opposite him; given the size, she was rather far away.

"I'm too tired to be startled," Harry mumbled. Suddenly, he remembered something. "Listen, sorry about before. It's been a long few days."

"You don't have to apologize," Death said. She set her skull down on the floor behind her head and leaned forward, peering intently into Harry's eyes with those unsettling white orbs of hers. "What are you doing in here, Harry?"

"Falling asleep," Harry admitted with a sigh. "But I'm supposed to be figuring out this egg. I'm just so bloody tired."

"May I try something?" Death tilted her head as she watched him, and Harry noticed for the first time that she was naked. The swell of her bust was just visible beneath the foaming pink bubbles. "I think I can help."

"Erm, sure." Harry suddenly felt self conscious, and he took a moment to make sure that he was adequately covered by bubbles. "What did you want to try?"

"I have to show you," she said.

Moving with deliberate slowness, Death rose to her knees and shuffled towards him. The water lapped against the sides of the tub in waves from her movements. She never took her eyes off of Harry's, even when his dropped to her bared chest and his cheeks began to burn red. She slid forward until her knees brushed his beneath the water, and it occurred to Harry that he'd never actually touched her before. She felt cool, even beneath the steaming water.

"Erm, I can see your – the bubbles, um - " Harry stammered, averting his gaze.

"Shhh," Death silenced him with one exhaled breath and beckoned him forth with one crooked finger. "Come here."

Self-consciously, Harry leaned forward, following her summons until his face was inches from hers. She didn't breathe; it was such an odd thing to strike him at that time, but so close to her he couldn't help but notice that her chest did not rise or fall. His own breath was coming faster as he stared into those pure white eyes. Hesitantly, with an expression that Harry could only describe as coy, Death reached out and laid the flat of her palm against Harry's chest. And then she kissed him.

Her lips, like her skin beneath the water, were cool against his. She cupped his face in one tender hand, pulling him in even as something radiated from their embrace. The coolness of her touch spread throughout his body, purging away the fatigue and stress like a wave of pure, cold water. Harry's eyelids fluttered closed as he gave himself to that wave and welcomed the succor that it provided. It was a different kind of kiss than the one he shared with Hermione; he felt no passion, just cool relief and comfort in her touch. When they broke the kiss, he found himself missing that sensation just as much as the heat.

"I...wow." Harry's eyes opened reluctantly to find her watching him with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I feel great. How did you do that?"

"I just gave you a little bit of me," she said with a slight smile and a tilt of her head. "To make you whole again."

"You have to do it with a kiss?" Harry asked, swallowing heavily.

"No," she admitted with a shy smile. "I wanted to try it...did I do it right?"

"Um," Harry's eyes opened reluctantly to find her watching him with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Yeah, I think so. I mean...yes. That was amazing."

"Good," Her smile was radiant, and Harry couldn't help but mirror it. "I've never done it before. I was worried you wouldn't like it."

"No, I did," he said, but he could feel guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. "But, listen...Hermione and I, we...well, when people are together the way she and I are, they don't kiss anyone else. I don't think she would like this very much."

"Oh," Harry felt his heart wrench as Death's smile was replaced by a sad frown. She lowered herself into the water, bubbles once again obscuring her nudity. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

"It's alright, just...we can't do it again."

"Okay," she agreed, but confusion still lingered in her voice. "Is that love, Harry? What you and Hermione have?"

"I - " Harry found himself stumbling over his words. "I mean, I don't know. It's not something you just know, at least...I don't think it is. It's something that grows as you spend time with a person."

"Oh," Death nodded sagely, but she looked away. "I see."

"Listen," Harry cleared his throat, eager for a change of topic. "Can you help me with this egg?"

"Maybe," Death shrugged one bare shoulder. "May I see it?"

Obediently, Harry handed it to her. She peered at it for a moment, examining its every surface, before she opened it. Harry had been ready; he tried to shout out a warning as he clapped his hands to his ears, but the screeching barely seemed to faze Death. She closed it calmly and handed it back to him after only a moment of listening to the insufferable wailing.

"It's a poem." She said. "Open it underwater, you'll hear it."

Harry did as she instructed; he opened the egg beneath the bubbles and, when he heard nothing, lowered his head beneath the surface as well. To his amazement, the egg was no longer screeching but singing. A beautiful, haunting melody filled his ears.

"Come seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground,

And while you're searching ponder this;

We've taken what you'll sorely miss,

An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took,

But past an hour, the prospect's black,

Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."

With a gasp, Harry lifted his head and filled his lungs. When he had caught his breath, he submerged himself once more and listened again, but the song didn't make much more sense to him the second time. When he lifted his head at last, Death was sitting on the rim of the tub, completely dry and trailing her bare feet in the water as she once again cradled her ever-present skull. To Harry's mingled relief and disappointment, she was once again wearing her white gown.

"What does it mean?" Harry mused, more to himself. "We can not sing above the ground..."

Harry's eyes were drawn upwards, to where the stained glass image of the mermaid was bathing in the yellow glass sun.

"The merpeople in the black lake." Harry felt a shudder travel down his spine, despite the warmth of the water. "They've taken something, and I'll have an hour to get it. How...how am I going to breathe underwater for an hour?"

"That's easy," Death shrugged one shoulder. "I can help you."

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It was a cold morning; the wind whipping over the lake tore at the robes of the champions who had assembled on the dock. They'd all worn bathing suits under their robes, an indication that they had all figured out the secret contained within the egg. Fleur was clenching and unclenching her hands repeatedly, and Viktor was pacing like a caged tiger; only Cedric seemed to be at ease. Harry, for his part, kept peering behind him, hoping to see Death standing there waiting to help him; stubbornly, she had refused to appear.

Harry had looked for Hermione that morning, hoping that her rational mind would offer him some comfort in the face of his anxiety regarding the task. She hadn't been at breakfast, nor had he spotted her in the crowd that gathered to watch the event. When asked, Ron simply offered a sullen shrug and said he hadn't seen her before shuffling off. Harry felt a stab of pain at that; Ron had been his best friend for three years, but it seemed that the rift between them was growing wider by the day.

The sound of a pistol startled Harry from his thoughts, and three champions leapt into the water on both sides of him. Harry lingered , casting his gaze left and right in search of Death. There was no sign of her, and Harry felt panic start to grip at his heart. With slow, deliberate breaths he forced himself to remain calm – he could do this, there had to be some spell he knew that would help him.

"Come on, Harry!" He didn't recognize the voice that called out from the stands, but it was followed by a peal of laughter.

Harry drew in a deep breath, and dove in.

The water was shockingly cold. He would have gasped in surprise, were his lungs not already full; instead he thrashed about, pulling himself deeper as he fought to regain control. He could hardly see; the Black Lake was aptly named, and the murky water stung his eyes. The cold conspired to steal his breath, and soon his lungs burned. He was about to give up and swim to the surface when a pale shape in the water caught his attention.

"Hello, Harry." Death's voice was perfectly audible, despite their watery surroundings. "Here you go."

She placed her palm against his forehead. Nothing seemed to happen; he was still cold, his lungs still burned, and he couldn't see. Finally, it was too much; with a strangled cry Harry drew in a desperate breath, flooding his lungs with water. The sensation of drowning was curiously absent; he exhaled, and drew in another breath. He could clearly feel water flowing into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs, but each breath satisfied him as effortlessly as a breath of air.

"I can't see," Harry said, his voice escaping in a cloud of bubbles.

Death reached forward and touched Harry's temple. His vision blurred and his head spun for a moment as his eyes seemed to refocus, and then suddenly he could see with perfect clarity. Harry blinked; his eyes felt oddly-shaped in their sockets.

"We'd better hurry," Death said, and with her long raven hair flowing behind her she turned and swam down, into the darkness.

They swam until Harry's arms and legs ached. The gloom soon became too deep for even Harry's adapted eyes to penetrate, but luckily Death's white dress seemed to glow. It was a beacon that Harry followed deeper and deeper until he became hopelessly lost. He could only trust that Death would lead him to his goal, and he swam on despite the fire in his muscles.

It felt like many minutes had passed before he finally saw something. A collection of crude driftwood huts, walled with seaweed, cluttered around four stakes that had been driven into the lake bottom. A person was tied to each stake, bound hand and foot and deathly still. Harry's heart dropped into his stomach when he recognized Hermione's bushy hair fanning out in the gentle current. Harry swam with renewed vigor towards the victims even as the sleep shapes of merpeople began to flit around him. To his great relief, Hermione was breathing as if in a deep sleep, a bubble of air held captive around her face.

"Hermione," He shouted, his voice escaping his throat in a stream of bubbles. "Hermione!"

"She's asleep," Death said at his side. "They all are."

Merpeople had gathered around the stakes, clutching crude spears and watching Harry curiously. Harry peered at the other prisoners; he saw Cho Chang, whom Cedric had taken to the ball. There was a young girl with silver hair who had to be related in some way to Fleur, and finally Harry saw the Ravenclaw girl that Viktor Krum had taken to the ball. As he watched them, the egg's song filtered unbidden through his mind.

"But past an hour, the prospect's black,

Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."

"How long have I been down here?" he asked Death.

"Thirty-eight minutes," she replied.

No one else had come for their prisoners. What would happen if they were still there when the time ran out? What would the merpeople do when the hour was up? Harry didn't want to risk finding out. He had made up his mind to rescue all of them, when a flash to his right captured his attention even as Cho's bindings disappeared in a puff of vapor.

Cedric Diggory was powering towards Harry's position, his head encased in a bubble of air just like the ones sustaining the prisoners. His arm sported a fresh gash, but he grinned fiercely as he wrapped his arm around Cho's waist. He was about to leave, when he glanced at Harry and tapped his wrist urgently. Time was running out. Then he was gone, swimming expertly upwards towards the distant light of the surface.

Harry waited. Viktor came for the Ravenclaw girl in that Harry didn't know, and carried her away in a bizarre half-man, half-shark form. Harry waited for what felt like hours, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. The merpeople simply watched him, their spears held in loose fingers as they tried to puzzle out what he was doing. The watched idly as he freed Hermione and hefted her in his arm; only when he attempted to free Fleur's relative did they take action to prevent him.

"Only one!" The merman's voice burbled menacingly, his spear held before him.

"Fifty-nine minutes, Harry." Death's voice was calm against the backdrop of Harry's mounting panic.

He made his decision. With a blast from his wand Harry sundered the bonds that held the young silver-haired girl captive, sending the merpeople scattering. The brave ones that tried to prevent Harry from taking both girls were held at bay with harmless sparks, and soon Harry was swimming up and up and up, the light growing as his aching muscles propelled them to the surface. He suspected Death of helping him in those last minutes, but he wasn't about to complain; when at last he breached the surface with his arm around both girl's waists, Harry's body trembled with exhaustion.

Waiting hands at the docks lifted the girls onto the docks, and Harry himself was hauled bodily up by none other than Alastor Moody himself. The auror's face was grim as he pulled Harry in close.

"Good work, Potter. But you've got bigger problems." Alastor's electric-blue eye swiveled around, searching for anyone that might overhear their conversation. "We need to talk. Tonight, after the feast. Meet me in my office."

Moody stomped off, every other foot thudding woodenly against the dock as he left. Harry didn't have time to dwell on his words, for he was swept up in people congratulating him, clapping him on the back as they drew him towards the champion's tent to warm his shivering bones. The mass of people was stopped, however, when Fleur Delacour stepped in Harry's path and threw her arms around him.

"You saved 'er!" She planted a kiss on Harry's cheek, and his skin tingled were her lips had touched it. "You saved my sister! Thank you!"

And then they were swept up, drawn towards the tent on a wave of cheering bodies.

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The evening feast was a raucous affair, but Harry and Hermione distanced themselves from the festivities and ate quickly. Moody was not at the staff table; Harry could only assume that whatever news he had to share was dire indeed. Even the announcement that Harry was tied with Cedric for first place did little to lift his spirits; against the dire threat that Harry was faced with, the tournament felt like nothing more than a petty distraction.

Harry and Hermione were just about to leave for Moody's office when Dumbledore stood at his lectern and tapped his wand for silence. The buzz of conversation died down, and Dumbledore cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back before he spoke.

"Students, teachers, ghosts and caretakers. It is with pride that I congratulate champions Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter on their outstanding performance in today's event."

The hall erupted in cheers, but Harry barely heard them.

"Let us also congratulate champions Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum; the Triwizard Tournament is an arduous contest, and their achievements should not be overlooked."

Cheers swept over the hall once more, though this time the revelry was noticeable more subdued.

"And finally, it is with a heavy heart that I must announce the resignation of our beloved Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Alastor Moody." Dumbledore's voice was grave, tinged with the sadness that one would expect from a man announcing the resignation of a dear friend. Harry knew that it was only an act. "Professor Moody handed in his resignation to me personally this afternoon, and departed immediately afterward. He will be missed. Professor Snape has graciously agreed to pull double duty as both Potions Master and Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor."

The hall erupted in a buzz of conversation, and even the teachers at the staff table were talking in hushed whispers among themselves. Confusion was evident on every face, save two; Harry and Hermione looked at each other with fear in their eyes. They had just lost their only ally at Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"What do we do now?" Harry hissed, leaning in close to Hermione.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "We're running out of people we can trust."

At that moment, Ron shifted down the table. He'd stopped eating with them over a week ago, and as he filled the space that he used to occupy he looked sullen. He stared resolutely down at his plate, and when he spoke he muttered and forced Harry and Hermione to lean in to understand him.

"I'm going back to the Burrow over the break to see my family, and they invited you too, Harry." Ron glanced up, briefly meeting Hermione's gaze, and just as quickly returned to his inspection of his plate. "You too, 'Mione."

"Oh, uh..." Harry grimaced. With as strained as things had been between himself and Ron, he couldn't imagine a more awkward event. "Well, I don't think - "

"We'll be there." Hermione cut in, laying her hand on Harry's chest. "We'd love to, Ron."

"How will we even get there?" Harry frowned. "I mean, the train isn't going to take us - "

"We've set up some portkeys." Ron shrugged. "Dad worked it all out with McGonagall, I guess."

"Oh," Harry said, falling silent.

"What was that?" Harry asked once Ron had shuffled away. "Hermione, it'll be dreadful."

"We need people on our side, Harry." She hissed, cupping his face between her hands and drawing him in close. "We're all alone here. Moody was our only hope and now he's gone – dead, probably – everyone in this school is loyal to Dumbledore. Not Hogwarts, or the students – Dumbledore. We're surrounded by his own personal army."

"Moody's not dead," Harry said firmly. "He's too paranoid to let anyone near him. He probably ran."

"Regardless, Harry, we need allies."

"But -the Weasleys?" Harry looked over to Ron, who was gesticulating wildly as he presumably reenacted a Quidditch maneuver for Dean Thomas' benefit. "I can't think of anyone more loyal to him."

"We have to try, Harry."

Harry looked up to the head table, where the teachers were talking among themselves in hushed tones. No doubt, they were mulling over the surprising news of Professor Moody's departure. One figure, however, was not participating in the chatter; Albus Dumbledore sat quietly in his appointed place at the center of the table, and his pale blue eyes never left Harry. Yet, Harry realized, there was one other who did not participate; Professor Snape was stabbing at his food with an expression that Harry could only describe as fury.

"I've had an idea," Harry said quietly. "And I don't think it's a very good one."

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Snape had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts once before, in Harry's memory – in the previous year, when Professor Lupin had been too ill to teach. Harry later learned that Remus had been preoccupied with turning into a werewolf at the time, and Snape's entire lesson was a thinly-veiled attempt to reveal his condition. His new lessons were hardly an improvement; he taught Defense Against the Dark Arts with the same brutal efficiency and callous favoritism that colored his potions classes.

By the end of the first lesson, Harry was beginning to doubt his plan – but as the class concluded and the rest of the students began to file out, Hermione pushed him towards the front of the classroom and suddenly he had no choice. Snape looked up from his desk, his face twisting in the sneer he nearly always wore when he looked at Harry.

"Mr. Potter," he purred, his oily voice dripping with smug contempt. "Are you here to lodge a complaint? Was my method of teaching not up to your standards?'

"Actually," Harry swallowed heavily, "Sir, I was hoping that I could talk to you. Privately."

Snape stared at him for a long moment, greasy locks of hair falling before his eyes. Finally he sighed and combed his fingers through his hair, jerking his head towards the staircase that led to the office adjacent to the classroom.

Harry had seen the office undergo several transformations – Quirrel, then Lockhart, Lupin, and then Moody. Each time, the office had been a reflection of the person that inhabited it, a small window into their psyche. Now it was stripped bare, and it was as bleak and empty as a dungeon cell. Only the desk remained, and a single chair before it which Harry slowly sank into. Snape remained standing, leaning over his desk and peering intently at Harry.

"Speak quickly Potter," Snape said. "I'm very busy."

"Sir, I know you don't like me," Harry began, fighting to keep the sneer out of his voice. "And I don't like you very much, either. But I think you might be the only person in the school that will listen to what I have to say."

"Spit it out." Snape hissed.

"I think Dumbledore wants to kill me."

Snape went very still; he didn't blink, he didn't breathe, and after a moment Harry began to wonder if he'd been placed under some kind of paralysis charm. But then Snape sighed; a slow, weary exhalation that seemed to deflate the man.

"I will only say this once," Snape said, speaking very slowly. "You must never say anything like that aloud within these walls again. Is that clear?"

"Sir, I - "

"Is that clear?" Snape hissed, lunging forward and clutching the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. "Say it!"

"Yes, it's clear!" Harry shrank back from Snape's oily visage, his heart hammering in his chest. "I don't understand, I - "

"No," Snape cut in, rising to his full height. "You do not understand. There are a great many things that you do not understand, and I am not about to explain them to you. You'd better leave, Potter – right now – and I will do you the courtesy of forgetting that you ever said those words. You'd best forget it, too, whatever it is you think you know."

"Professor – please – I need help."

"You'll not find it here." Snape was looking at Harry in a peculiar fashion, his eyes boring intently into Harry's. "Do you understand me? No one here is going to entertain these ideas of yours."

"Where, then? Where can I find help?"

"Get out," Snape spat. "You're just as stupid as your father was."

"Don't talk about my father like that!" Harry sprang to his feet, his face flushed with anger.

"Get out of my office." Snape's voice was dangerously low.

Harry didn't waste a moment more; he nearly fell over himself in his haste to leave Snape's spartan office. He shut the door behind him and paused in the corridor, catching his breath as he replayed the conversation in his head. What had he said? Why had Snape been so angry with him? It didn't make any sense; but then, Snape had always hated him. He had just hoped that if he went to him as a student seeking help, he would put aside the hatred that he'd held for his father.

Harry felt a stab of frustration; clearly, he'd been wrong.

With his head low, Harry trudged towards the great hall and lunch. He heard the buzz of voices long before he stepped through he massive double doors, a pleasant buzz of normalcy that seemed so out of place in the world that Harry had found himself in. He paused in the doorway, suddenly unable to face the people within – unable to feign interest in Seamus' latest tale of his exploits, or force laughter at Fred and George's jokes. He turned away, and instead found himself heading – almost unconsciously – for the Gryffindor common room.

It was deserted, just as Harry expected it to be. Everyone was in the great hall enjoying lunch, and each others' company. It felt lonely, and somehow the prospect of joining them felt even lonelier. He crossed the space and lowered himself into his favorite armchair by the fire, staring into the always-burning flames without really seeing them.

"I can make it happen, you know." Death was sitting in the armchair beside him, curled up with her white dress pooled around her.

"Make what happen?" Harry asked; he had ceased to be startled by her sudden appearances.

"What you're thinking," she said. When Harry turned to look at her, a slow smile spread on her face. "I can take it all away – Voldemort, Dumbledore...the coming war. Let it fall on someone else's shoulders, and you can be a normal student again."

"What are you, the ghost of Christmas present?" Harry cracked a smile at his own joke, but Death only stared. "I mean – you want to show me what it would be like if I wasn't here to deal with these things, right?"

"Things wouldn't be much different, Harry." Death smiled once more, her thin finger tracing the orbit of her skull. "Events would unfold much as they have...others would rise to shoulder your burdens. I can see it. I can change things for you – permanently – give you the life you're longing for right now."

"So you're saying...what? That I don't matter?" Harry frowned. "You're just about the worst at making me feel better."

"No one matters," Death said brightly, as if that was an improvement. "You could take any one person out of history, erase them completely...and things would more or less play out in the same way. Oh, there would be a few differences, of course, minor ones. But the course of history is driven by people as a whole, Harry; one person is largely inconsequential."

Harry was silent for some time after she spoke. That night, he wanted nothing more than to forget it all – let the responsibility slide from his shoulders and fall on someone else for a change. He was tired, he realized. Physically and emotionally exhausted by the constant fear and gnawing worry that lingered constantly at the back of his mind. This must have been what it was like for Moody, Harry realized – maybe this is how it started for him. Soon, Harry himself would be enchanting his dustbins to attack would-be-intruders.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice pierced his grim thoughts, and he looked up to see her slipping in past the Fat Lady. "Where have you been?"

"Just here." Harry looked to the chair across from him, but Death had vanished. "Felt like being alone."

"I can leave - " Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.

"No, stay." He managed a smile. "I'm just getting lost in my head again."

Wordlessly, Hermione crossed the cozy space, letting her bookbag slide from her shoulder as she came. She clambered onto the chair with Harry, and while the chair was large enough for them both to sit comfortably she curled her legs over his lap and pillowed her head on his shoulder. Unconsciously he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight. Such closeness had become routine for them, as natural as drawing breath. She sighed contently, nestled in his embrace, and for the first time all day Harry felt at peace.

"What are we going to do, Harry?" Hermione asked, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. "I feel like the walls are closing in around us..."

"I don't know. I just - " Harry's thought was cut short by Death, who whispered into Harry's ear.

"You're not alone." She was so close that Harry could feel her cool lips brushing against his ear. "Someone is waiting for you. In Hogsmeade, at the Hog's Head."

"How do you - " Harry began, but when he turned she was gone.

"What?" Hermione looked up at him with a frown.

"Nothing," Harry said. "Let's go to Hogsmeade this weekend."

"We're supposed to go to the Weasleys," Hermione reminded him.

"Oh, right." Harry sighed. "We can work both in. I just...want to get away. Even if it's just for an afternoon."

Wordlessly, Hermione nodded against his chest and Harry felt a curious sort of guild flow into his chest. Why hadn't he told her what Death had said? The longer he thought on it, the more uncertain he was; it was as if some part of him wanted to keep Death all to himself. Perhaps it stemmed from that surreal, rejuvenating kiss that she'd given him, but he as he considered it he felt a strange, irrational possessiveness towards her take root in his mind. It was yet another problem that he couldn't afford to dwell on; certainly not with the weekend that he had planned.

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The Hogs Head was unchanged since the last time Harry had visited. If anything, the run-down pub had only gotten filthier. Harry slipped through the door with Hermione in tow, blinking awkwardly in the doorway for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were few patrons – one winkled witch had settled herself in the far corner, nursing a dirty cup of some amber liquid, and a pair of greasy-looking wizards were having a heated argument at the other end of the room, hissing at one another in tones too low for Harry or Hermione to hear.

The chose a wobbly table near the center of the room, equidistant from the witch and the wizards. Aberforth wordlessly set a pair of butterbeers down before them, frowning at them silently as though he could evict them from his establishment with a glare. Hermione clearly shared his sentiment; she kept glancing longingly at the door.

"Why did you want to come here, of all places?" Hermione asked, leaning in close.

"I like it here, I guess." Harry lied, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden stool. "It has character."

"Right, character..." Hermione drew a finger over the rim of her glass, making a face at the thin layer of grime she came away with. "Let's just drink these and get out of here."

Harry nodded, but he barely heard her. He was looking around – looking for the person that was waiting for him. No one seemed to be a likely candidate; the witch seemed half-asleep, and the arguing wizards had fallen silent, glaring at one another as they drank large amounts of whatever was filling their tankards. Harry was beginning to think that Death had been wrong, when he saw the old witch staring at him; she was holding something in her gnarled hands, something round and electric-blue.

"Is that - " Harry peered closer at the object in her hands, and to his shock the orb rotated in her grasp, revealing a tiny white pupil that fixed him with a familiar glare.

Tugging on Hermione's sleeve, Harry stood and moved to the witch's table, butterbeer forgotten. His fingers grasped his wand in his sleeve as he slowly took his seat, his eyes flitting between the witch's face and the familiar artifact in her grasp. He waited for her to speak first, but when she didn't Harry indicated the object in her hand with a nod of his head.

"Where did you get that?" He asked, his voice hard. "That belongs to a friend of mine."

"Found it," She rasped. Her voice sounded like it was being squeezed out of a broken accordion. "In the dirt. Someone didn't want it anymore, I think."

"I find that hard to believe," Harry said, his eyes narrowing. "My friend was rather fond of that eye."

"A mad eye for a mad man." She cackled, her wrinkled lips parting to reveal a single, rotten stump of a tooth. "And mad men do mad things."

"Where is Professor Moody?" Harry asked. He could feel his grip tightening on his wand.

"He disappeared," she crooned, drawing her frayed robes tightly around her shoulders. "Or – he was disappeared. Wasn't his choice."

"Dumbledore killed him," Harry said flatly, his voice lowering.

"Dumbledore doesn't kill anybody," the old crone spat, suddenly coherent. "Too good, too clean. Too many loose ends...no, no, Dumbledore didn't kill him. Worse, far worse."

"What could be worse than killing him?" Hermione asked, frowning at the woman.

"You can erase a man, without killing him." The crone nodded, her solitary tooth peeking out of her lips as she pursed them. "The right word to the right person, clues left in all the right places...it can all point to something dark, and Albus Dumbledore can weave a web so tight that no one can escape from it. Ruin, without raising a wand. Without even appearing to act."

"So – where is he?" Harry could feel his patience wearing thin. "Azkaban?"

"Gone," the crone said again. "He wanted you to have this."

She held out the eye to Harry, and when he hesitated to take it she pressed it into his palm with both of her hands. It was cool, like stone, and Harry could feel it whirling about against his palm. It was unsettling; he knew it wasn't a real eye, but he'd never seen it outside of Moody's head before. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Harry took it from her, peering down at it in his palm even as it peered back up at him.

"Why would he want me to have this? I'm not about to pluck my eye out and put this one in."

"Not the way it works, boy." The crone drew her shawl tighter around herself once more, as if she was unable to get warm. "See the unseen, touching it is enough. You'll learn; it takes time to get used to it."

Curious, Harry focused on the eye in his palm. For a moment, he could see himself – as if he were a fairy sitting on his own hand, a curious superimposed image of himself atop the crone's withered face. But there was more – so much more. That image held secrets, depths that he could uncover at a whim. He could see his pores, yawning open like great pits on his face – deeper, each individual cell that comprised his skin opening up for him like diagram on a chalkboard. Drawn by some unseen impulse, he pressed on, only to discover that the cells weren't still, everything that comprised them was vibrating, whirling in a chaotic orbit. Deeper still, and Harry saw the great expanse contained within himself, infinite space and time. He felt like he would burst, be torn asunder by all that nothingness, consumed -

The eye rolled across the table with a clatter, and Harry was suddenly aware of Hermione's hand on his arm. Her face was concerned as she peered up at him, but the crone was laughing so hard that she could barely breathe. She cackled as she caught the eye and rolled it back to Harry, who carefully caught it in his robes and managed to maneuver it into his pocket without touching it.

"Told you, it takes some getting used to." The crone was standing, sidling out from behind the table. "Now – I've spent too much time here already. Time for me to go."

"Please," Hermione said, clutching at her sleeve. "You have to help us. Where is Professor Moody?"

"You won't see him again." The crone's eyes flitted between both of them for a long moment, before she turned away. "And you won't see me again, either."

Harry and Hermione could only sit and watch as the old witch hobbled out of the Hogshead, leaning on a gnarled cane she'd kept concealed beneath her tattered robes. The wizards in the corner were arguing again, but Harry didn't hear them; he was simply staring at the door where she'd gone. The Mad Eye felt heavy in his pocket, and even there he could feel it whirling around, searching for something only it could find.

"Was that...?" Harry asked slowly.

"Yeah," Hermione said. "I think it was."

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Harry could remember the first time he'd seen the Burrow. It was during the summer just before his second year at Hogwarts, and at the time it had seemed like the most perfect place on earth. The ramshackle structure had the feeling of a much-overgrown cottage, and it was every bit as haphazard and welcoming on the inside. Yet now as Harry looked at the building, with Hermione at his side and Sarchanie coiled around his neck, he felt nothing but a growing sense of unease.

"This is going to be awful," Harry said with a sigh.

"Ron's still your friend, Harry." Hermione said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "He'll come round, and so will the rest of the Weasleys. I know it."

Harry nodded, but he wasn't convinced. Ron had been nothing but cold to him since the first days of their investigation into Dumbledore's true identity, and the more Harry learned the further it seemed to drive them apart. Now he and Ron barely spoke, and Harry knew that his one-time friend had only invited him to dinner because his parents had insisted on it. It should have hurt to know that he was losing a friendship that he at one time had treasured, but perhaps Harry was just too tired.

"Promise me that you'll go in there with an open mind," Hermione said, taking his hand.

"Yeah, I promise." Harry nodded and forced a smile, but in his heart he knew that it was no use.

With that, they made the trek down the hillock and into the house. Harry knocked and was prepared to wait, but Hermione threw the door open and stepped inside. Molly Weasley was there, bustling about the kitchen in her apron, and when she saw the pair of them her face split in a genuine smile. The diminutive woman scooped both Harry and Hermione up in a hug, squealing with delight before she finally released them.

"Oh, it's so good to see you both." Molly said, clasping her hands together. "When Ron told us that you two were an item, well...it's just wonderful news."

"Oh, erm. Thanks." Harry forced out a smile.

"Sit down, sit down – you're just in time for dinner." She cupped her hands over her mouth and bellowed in the direction of the stairs. "Arthur! Ron! Dinner!"

There was only brief wait before Ron and his father trooped down the stairs. Arthur greeted them warmly, just as Molly had, but Ron had lost none of his surliness. He sat down on the opposite side of the table from them without a word, and he began eating as soon as the food was placed before him. The food smelled delicious, but Harry had come to expect nothing less from Mrs. Weasleys kitchen. This time she seemed to have puled out all the stops, and had made an entire ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, and even a home-made custard.

Regardless of the awkwardness that had brought him there, Harry was determined to at least enjoy the food. Molly was the best cook he'd ever known, and he wasn't going to let her efforts go to waste. A silence settled over the table as they ate that was, if not companionable, at least comfortable. No one said much of anything at all until Molly set out the custard, and then Ron ruined it by speaking.

"So...this news about Moody is pretty wild, huh?" He said around a mouthful of custard.

"You mean that he resigned? I..." He glanced over in Hermione's direction, and sighed. "Yeah. It's wild, I don't think anyone saw it coming."

"No one did," Arthur said, staring down at his half-eaten desert. "And...well, I probably shouldn't be saying this, but it will be in the Prophet soon enough..."

"What is it, dad?" Ron asked, frowning.

"The aurors are looking for him," Arthur said, his voice dropping as if someone outside the kitchen might hear them. "He's wanted on...well, let's just say that they searched his home and found some things that paint him in a very different light. Dark stuff."

Harry and Hermione shared a glance. What's could be worse than killing him?

"Why did they search his house?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Anonymous tip from one of his students, or so I hear. Sharp-eyed pupil. That's the real reason Moody took off." Arthur sighed, and pushed his bowl away. "It's a damn shame. But...you spend enough time hunting dark wizards, you start thinking like them..."

"He didn't," Harry said, setting his spoon down. He'd heard enough.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur asked.

"I mean, he didn't start thinking like a dark wizard." Harry clarified. "He was set up. Because he was about to - "

"I swear, Harry, if you start spouting this nonsense about Dumbledore again - " Ron had half-risen from his chair, but Arthur motioned for him to sit down.

"No Ron, it's all right. Let Harry speak."

"He was about to discover the truth," Harry said, ignoring the warning hand that Hermione placed on his arm. "About Dumbledore."

"So it's true, then." Molly was looking at him with a mixture of pity and horror. "Ron said that you'd been saying awful things about Dumbledore, but...well, we just couldn't believe it."

"What's gotten into you, Harry?" Arthur asked, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the table. "Dumbledore has done more for the wizarding world than anyone else alive. He's earned my loyalty a dozen times over, personally. And to you – Harry, he's practically been a second father to you. How can you say these things about him?"

"He lies," Harry said, more loudly than he intended to. "He uses people. He wants everyone to think that he's a force of good when he's really worse than any so-called 'dark wizard' that ever lived."

"I see," Arthur said, his eyes sliding over to share a glance with his wife. "And do you have any proof of this, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry insisted. "I gave it to Professor Moody. And he told me that he found something – something about Dumbledore – but he left because Dumbledore found out. I don't even know if he's really alive anymore..."

"You gave it to Alastor Moody," Arthur said carefully, "The target of a manhunt that involves aurors all over europe? I'm sorry, Harry, but don't you see how that's a little hard to find credible?"

"No – that's what I'm telling you. Moody was set up." Harry could feel that anger building up in his breast, the all-too-familiar sensation of knowing that he was fighting a loosing battle. "Dumbledore found out, and he set Moody up. He destroyed his reputation in an instant. He's probably been planning it for years, just in case Moody caught on to him..."

"I'm sorry, Harry." Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Harry with a stern look. "This just sounds a little far-fetched. I mean – you sound like you've gone off the rails. How on earth did you head get filled with all this nonsense?"

"There's a prophecy," Harry pressed. "I found it in the Department of Mysteries - "

"How on earth did you get in there?" Arthur asked, but Harry ignored him.

"It talks about a true dark lord. One worse than Voldemort, worse than Grindelwald. Only Dumbledore fits."

"I see." Arthur said. "And you didn't think that the Ministry would already know about this? Since it was, as you say, in the Ministry's possession?"

"No," Harry said. His face was starting to feel very warm. "It was bewitched so that it seemed to be about something else, something really boring - "

"Alright." Arthur cut him off, shaking his head. "I've heard about enough. Harry, you've got to stop this – you've got to realize that Dumbledore is the last, best hope we have against You-Know-Who. He's the only thing standing between us and the darkest future that the world has ever known."

"Exactly," Harry said. "There was a letter – Aberforth gave it to us,"

"Aberforth?" Molly rolled her eyes. "That man is a drunk, and a fool. He's never been right, not since his sister died."

"It doesn't matter!" Harry's voice was growing heated. "He stole the letter from Dumbledore during the first wizarding war. It was from Tom Riddle – Voldemort – and it was thanking Dumbledore for all of the help and private lessons. Don't you see? Dumbledore was grooming Tom – he wanted a threat that would let him take control of the wizarding world."

"Albus Dumbledore," Arthur began, half-rising from his chair in an unconscious imitation of Ron, "Is a fine teacher. I'm sure he helped many of his students, including Tom Riddle. Now Harry – I have been patient with you. I have tried to see your side and understand where you're getting these ideas. But if you continue to talk this way about a man that I respect and admire, under my roof, I'm going to have to as you to leave. I won't have it."

"Arthur – Harry – please." Molly had risen from her chair as well, her gaze flitting between the pair of them. "This has gone far enough. Harry and Hermione are family, and we don't throw family from this house. Now sit down, all of you."

"What about you, Hermione?" Arthur asked. He was still gripping his fork tightly, but his voice at least had calmed. "Do you believe all of this – this rubbish?"

"I mean - " Hermione's gaze flitted among the three Weasleys, and she seemed to shrink into herself. "I mean, the evidence - "

"What evidence?" Arthur asked, leaning in. "You've got the word of a boy – even if he is Harry Potter, he's still a boy – and Albus' drunken brother who's always hated him. It's absurd."

"The prophecy - " Hermione began, a frown creasing her brow.

"It could refer to anyone. Or no one." Ron cut in. "You said yourself that Divination is bogus, didn't you?"

"Yes, but - "

"It's okay, dear." Molly said, laying a hand on Hermione's arm. "Don't let Harry bully you. We'll help him through – whatever this is."

"He's not bullying me," Hermione said, her voice rising slightly. "I helped him do the reasearch on that prophecy myself."

"And I suppose you checked every wizard born after it was made, living and dead?" Arthur asked, scooping up a bit of custard on his spoon.

"Of course not, that's impossible." Hermione replied.

"And I suppose that you yourself have seen Dumbledore do something – dark?" Arthur pressed, a small, dismissive smile tugging at his lips.

"No, but I trust Harry." Hermione said, though some of the conviction had left her voice.

"We trust Dumledore." Arthur said firmly. "Every good witch and wizard in Britain trusts Dumbledore."

"But..." Hermione glanced between the three of them once again, grasping for something to say.

"Harry has been under so much stress," Molly said, her voice sympathetic. "More stress a than any grown man should bear, let alone a boy. We're not angry with you, neither of you, we want to help you Harry."

Hermione turned to look at him, and in her eyes Harry saw the one thing that he couldn't bear to see – doubt.

"Finish your custard," Molly suggested gently. "We'll all talk more after dessert."

"Actually," Harry said, shoving his chair back from the table. "I think I should be getting back."

Harry left without another word, and after a moment's hesitation Hermione followed him.

The portkey deposited them at the edge of the castle grounds, just outside the protective enchantments that would have prevented them from appearing inside the castle proper. Harry and Hermione made the walk back to the school in silence. He was still angry – he could feel his hands curling into fists of their own accord, and it took a conscious effort and several deep breaths to calm himself enough to relax them.

"Harry," Hermione pleaded, just before they entered the castle. They were in the same spot that had been turned into a garden during the Yule ball – the same spot where they had shared their first kiss.

"What?" Harry asked, rounding on her more fiercely than he'd intended. He felt a pang of guilt when she shrank from him, but it as quickly replaced with anger.

"Harry I'm sorry," she said. "I just – I couldn't - "

"Couldn't stand up for me?" He shook his head slowly. "It's fine, Hermione. Forget it."

"No, Harry, I wanted to - " She tried, but Harry was already cutting her off.

"It's fine," he repeated firmly, looking away from her. "I'd rather figure out who I can rely on now, rather than later."

"Harry..." He could hear the tears in her voice, and a part of him wanted to go to her – fold her up in his embrace and apologize.

Instead, he turned away and walked into the castle alone.

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The next few days passed in a blur. The days blended into one another in a haze of anger and impotent frustration that seemed to have bound up his heart in iron chains. He felt like he was a automaton, stumbling from class to class, manufacturing the correct words to respond when he was spoken to, but there was no thought involved with any of it.

He didn't see Hermione. They knew each other well enough to know their schedules by heart, and it was easy for Harry to avoid the places where he knew she'd be. In the classes they shared he sat apart from her and left as quickly as he could when it was dismissed; he ate alone. He knew he should talk to her, sort it all out, but he couldn't. The thought of facing her filled him with a weariness that was bone-deep.

She'd hurt him – badly. There had certainly been times at Hogwarts where he'd felt isolated, but Hermione had always stood by him. Ron had long been his friend as well, but his loyalty was more conditional – he'd proved that with his refusal to see past Dumbledore's manufactured reputation. Hermione was the one person who had always been there, and never doubted him.

Until she had. There was no mistaking what he had seen on her face, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forget that look of uncertainty she'd given him.

As Harry made his way back to the common room from his Herbology lecture, he did his best not to think about it. He drifted along in the sea of students, even spoke with some of them and laughed at their jokes. It was an odd kind of isolation that he felt now; in the past he'd been shunned by his classmates, or ignored altogether. Now, no one knew what was keeping him apart – the terrible secret that isolated him from them. And they couldn't know.

"'Arry!" A familiar, thickly-accented voice called out. "Oh, 'Arry! I've been looking all over for you."

"Hi, Fleur." Harry said, sidling to the side of the corridor to allow the flow of students to pass. "What's up?"

"We never got a chance to talk," she said breathlessly, slipping in beside him. "After ze second task. You saved my sister, 'Arry."

"Oh," Harry said, a frown creasing his brow. "It's fine. I mean – you're welcome."

"Oh, Madame Maxine would kill me if she knew I was 'ere," she said, and hid a giggle with a press of her gloved hand to her face. "We're supposed to be studying. Oh – is that – is that 'er?"

Sarchanie had unwound herself from Harry's neck, craning her serpentine neck to see who Harry was talking to.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "This is Sarchanie."

"She's so small," Fleur whispered, reaching out one finger to touch her.

"I wouldn't," Harry warned. "She bites."

"Oh," Fleur looked slightly crestfallen as she withdrew her hand. "'Ow did you do it? Tame 'er, I mean?"

"I don't know if she's tame," Harry said, meeting the miniature dragon's gaze for a brief moment. "I just talked to her. I'm a parseltongue – I can talk to snakes – and I guess dragons can, too."

"Not all of us," Sarchanie corrected him with a hiss in his ear. "It's a gift among dragons, just as it is among wizards."

"What's she saying?" Fleur asked, her eyes alight as she watched the exchange.

"She just said that not all dragons can talk to snakes...it's rare for them, too." Harry said.

"This one is very pretty, hmm? She's practically salivating over you, Harry." Sarchanie nipped at Harry's ear the way she did when she was teasing him, but he felt the color rise to his cheeks regardless.

"What's she saying now?" Fleur's smile had taken on an impish quality as Harry blushed.

"Erm – she just said that you're very pretty, is all." Harry managed a smile that he was quite sure looked more like a pained grimace.

"What a sweet creature," Fleur beamed. "Ah, but I must go. Meet me tonight – won't you? On the north shore of the great lake. I'll be waiting for you."

She leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek, and then she turned and was gone, lost in the press of students that still flowed down the hall. He watched her go until long after she was out of sight, his hand lifted to touch the skin of his cheek where her lips had brushed. It was because she was part veela, he knew, that she had such a profound effect on him. He also knew that he should probably not go to the lake that night – not when things with Hermione were so unsettled. And he knew that, despite knowing these things, he would go regardless.

"I told you," Sarchanie hissed, smugly curling her neck round his once more.

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"Hello?" Harry whispered, slipping the hood of his invisibility cloak down from his ears. "Fleur?"

It was a chilly night by the lake, and unusually still. The only sounds were the crickets singing to one another in the tall grass that rimmed the water, and the sounds of the water lapping against the hull of the magical ship that the Durmstrang students had arrived on. There was no sign of Fleur, though with the moon barely a sliver in the sky it was hard to see much of anything. He was beginning to think that she'd played a trick on him when he heard a rustle in the grass behind him.

""Arry!" Fleur whispered, a slightly alarmed look on her face. "Where's the rest of you?"

"Oh, right." Harry shrugged out of the cloak, draping it over one arm with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

"An invisibility cloak?" Fleur smiled, and reached out an uncertain hand. "May I touch it?"

"Oh, erm – sure." Harry held the cloak out for her to feel.

"It's so soft," she sighed. "I've always wanted one, but zey are 'ard to get at Beauxbatons. Forbidden."

"I'm not technically supposed to have this, either." Harry looked up, and shared a conspiratorial smirk with Fleur. "And I'm definitely not supposed to be out of the dormitory at this hour."

"Oh..." Fleur glanced up at the castle. "Yes, Madame Maxine would be very cross with me if she knew I was out 'ere with you."

"So, erm...what did you want to talk about?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling rather awkward.

"You," Fleur said, a small smile tugging at her lips that she quickly hid behind her hand. "Come, sit with me."

Fleur spread out a soft blanket that she'd brought, and they sat down beside one another on the shore of the great lake. She sat rather close to him, he noticed; her thighs brushing his as she lay back and supported her upper body with her hands. She was looking out over the water, where the reflection of the scant moonlight sparkled like little diamonds sprawled out over a field of black velvet.

"So?" Fleur asked, her small smile barely visible in the gloom.

"So...?" Harry echoed, clearly not knowing what she expected him to say.

"Tell me about yourself," She laughed, leaning into him. "I mean – of course, I know what's in ze books. What everyone says. But tell me about the real 'Arry Potter."

"Well...erm..." Harry frowned; no one had ever asked him to explain himself in that way. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle. They're muggles, who live outside of London. Um...I didn't find out I was to be a wizard until I was eleven. I didn't know about...well, anything, until then."

"You grew up as a muggle?" Fleur's surprise was palpable. "That's...well, it's 'ard to believe. Considering who you are."

"Dumbledore said he didn't want me growing up as the 'boy who lived'. That he wanted me to have a normal childhood." Harry couldn't help but laugh, as it suddenly occurred to him to wonder if that was just another move in one of the old wizard's schemes.

"What is funny?" Fleur asked, frowning.

"Nothing – just, I don't think I had a very normal childhood," Harry said. "I don't like my aunt and uncle very much."

"Why not?"

"Erm...well, they just aren't very nice to me. They always go out of their way to make sure I know that I'm a burden. And they hate magic."

"That's 'orrible," Fleur sighed. "You deserve better."

"I don't know about that," Harry said with a frown. "I mean, things are rough with them, but the wizarding world has been good to me. I have a lot of people who care about me here...at least, I did."

All at once, Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if that was true, anymore. He'd considered the Weasleys family, at one time, but now he was afraid that he'd all but severed that tie. Hagrid, one of his closest friends, was so loyal to Dumbledore that Harry would never even consider bringing his concerns to him. Sirius was about the only person he had left who Harry was sure would be loyal to him – and with his godfather in hiding, it was difficult at best to communicate with him.

"You did?" Fleur laid a hand on top of his; her skin was warm. "What 'appened?"

"I..." Harry sighed, tearing his gaze away from Fleur to look up at the rigging of Durmstrang's ship. "I'd rather not talk about it. It will work itself out, it always does."

"But zis time is different," Fleur prompted, her pale eyes searching Harry's intently. "I can see it. Why?"

"It's just...big," Harry said, groping for words. "Bigger than anything I've ever dealt with. And I have to deal with it alone."

"You are 'Arry Potter," Fleur chided him gently, her hand slipping into his. "You never 'ave to be alone if you don't want to be. People flock to you – zey're drawn to you. Even dragons. If you need aid – all you 'ave to do is look in ze right place, and allies will always be zere."

Harry was silent for a time as he thought on that. She may have been right; yet he couldn't deny the fact that he'd been losing allies left and right ever since he'd found out the truth about Albus Dumledore. Yet, perhaps he hadn't been looking in the right places. Since he'd been introduced to the wizarding world, Harry had been surrounded by the people that Dumbledore had chosen – people loyal to him. Maybe all he had to do was look for help among those who already had a reason to distrust the venerable headmaster.

"Yeah," Harry said slowly. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny ray of hope pierce his black mood. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am," Fleur preened, but her vanity was tempered with a small smile. "You're a strange boy, 'Arry. Why must you take ze weight of ze world unto your own shoulders?"

"It just doesn't seem like anyone else will do it," Harry shrugged. "And I can't just let things...happen. If I see chance to make things better then I have to take it."

"Zat is what makes you noble," Fleur said. She lifted her hand to his cheek, the touch of her warm skin sending tingles throughout Harry's entire body. "It is why you saved my dear Gabrielle."

"I just did what anyone would have done," Harry insisted.

"No," Fleur countered firmly. "Viktor did not. Cedric did not. Zey thought only of zeir own success. Only you cared for ze innocents."

"They were the smart ones, anyway." Harry said with a self-deprecating smirk. "I should have known that they would have been safe."

"You do not take risks with people's lives," Fleur said. "And ze warning in ze egg was dire. You did ze right thing, 'Arry."

"Well...I'm glad I could." Harry said. He was starting to feel quite uncomfortable with all of the attention Fleur was giving him.

"You know, I never got to thank you," Fleur said, lowering her eyes to where her hand was still intertwined with Harry's. When she met his gaze again, there was something alluring there. "Properly, I mean."

"Oh, you don't have to - " Harry was suddenly having difficulty speaking.

"You don't want me to thank you?" Fleur asked. Her free hand lifted to Harry's chin, and with the lightest touch she drew him in.

Kissing Fleur was altogether different from kissing Hermione, or even Death. Fleur was confident, urgent, even demanding. She kissed him hungrily, open-mouthed, and the moment that their lips touched Harry was hers. There was none of the comfort that he felt with Hermione, none of the warm familiarity or easy intimacy. Fleur was dangerous and new, exciting and terrifying. In her grasp he was an animal, acting only on basic instinct.

They pawed at each others bodies, divesting one another of their clothes with the sort of haste that only lust can impart. Her body was perfect; smooth and pale in the thin moonlight, and as Harry's hands traced her every curve he slowly forgot about anything that existed outside of that embrace. He didn't care if it was just Fleur's veela charm, or if he was simply lonely and searching for any kind of companionship that he could find – he didn't care, in that moment, that he was betraying Hermione. All he cared about was the feeling of Fleur's body beneath his.

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The next morning dawned rather early for Harry's liking. He would have liked to fall asleep, naked next to Fleur on the shores of the Great Lake, but the risks were too great for both of them. They had parted reluctantly just as the faint streaks of red began to appear in the sky, both uttering promises that they would meet again. Yet despite the bliss of that perfect night, Harry awoke hating himself.

He had betrayed Hermione; there was no way around that fact in his mind. Never mind that he had felt betrayed first, never mind that she had hurt him worse than he'd ever been hurt – it was wrong. The wrongness of it settled on him like a mantle, somehow more burdensome than the weight of all the troubles that Harry had to face. This was personal, a direct result of his actions, and from the moment he awoke it began to crush him.

"Good morning, Harry." Death was sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him as her finger traced little patterns on his quilt.

"Morning," Harry said, fighting off the fog of sleep.

"I...saw you last night." Death said at once, not meeting his gaze. "With Fleur. I didn't watch...but, I saw you."

"Oh," Harry felt like his heart had become frozen in his chest. "Um. I..."

"I thought you said that you only do that with Hermione?" Death asked. There was no judgment in her voice, no accusation – just a kind of morose curiosity.

"I do – I mean, I'm supposed to. It's...it's complicated, I - "

"You just said that because you didn't want to kiss me again," she interrupted. She lifted her gaze to meet his, eerie white eyes searching his. "Didn't you?"

"No," Harry said, suddenly defensive. "No – I just made a mistake last night. You can't tell Hermione, OK?"

Death simply looked at him, and then she was gone.

Harry ventured into the common room reluctantly, not eager to start his day in the slightest. He'd already decided that he'd skip breakfast – he didn't want to risk seeing Hermione there, or anyone else for that matter. If he'd had his way, he would simply crawl back into bed and stay there until everything sorted itself out – but that didn't seem like a very viable solution in his mind, attractive though it might have been.

"McGonagall was looking for you," Hermione's voice nearly made Harry yelp – she was ensconced in one of the large armchairs, her form hidden from him. "She said...she said that Dumbledore wanted to see you in his office."

Hermione turned to look at him, leaning around the back of the armchair. Her eyes were red, and Harry immediately knew that she'd been crying. Seeing her upset was a vice that was slowly squeezing his heart – and knowing that what he had done would crush her only squeezed it tighter. It was a moment before he even realized what she'd said, and when the words finally hit his brain he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"Oh," Harry said. There wasn't much else to say.

"Don't go," Hermione pleaded. "Don't. Just – run away, hide with your aunt and uncle, go find Sirius – please, I don't want - "

"Hermione," Harry cut in, speaking as calmly as he could manage. "Relax. He is not going to kill me right here in the middle of the school. That's not how he works. I'll be fine."

All at once, Hermione threw herself at him, clutching him so tightly that he thought his spine might crack. Her whole body shook as she wept into his chest. Harry felt like an imposter as he held her – some vile creature who had stolen Harry Potter's skin to trick Hermione. It made him feel like he needed a wash, as if he could cleanse his sins from his very skin.

"Be careful," She whispered, and when she finally let him go she was wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. "Please, please, be careful."

"I will," Harry said.

He had a long time to think on the way to Dumbledore's office. His first thoughts were those of defense – how he might thwart an attempt by Dumbledore to take his life. Harry had to laugh out loud, at that – the mere thought of crossing wands with the greatest wizard who ever lived was simply absurd. No, if Dumbledore wished to murder Harry right in the middle of the school, there was very little that he could do about it.

He didn't believe he would, however. Harry knew Dumbledore rather well – and the more he thought about it, the more Dumbledore's terrible secret lined up with what he'd already known. Dumbledore was a schemer, a man who valued a cunning plan over brute strength. There were a million ways to dispose of Harry that would never implicate the headmaster, and Harry firmly believed that Dumbledore would have picked any one of them ahead of simple murder. By the time Harry arrived at the gargoyle sentinels that stood watch over the Headmaster's office, all he felt was curiosity.

He spoke the password and ascended the staircase. He'd done it many times before, of course, and in a strange way this time felt no different. No matter how fond he'd once been of his headmaster, there was always a certain sense of trepidation when Harry entered his office. Every time he'd been there, something grave had either happened or was about to happen. In that, this instance was par for the course.

He found Dumbledore seated at his desk, scratching at an unrolled parchment with an absurdly large quill. When he saw Harry enter, he looked up at him over his half-moon spectacles and smiled. The old wizard laid down his quill, and for a moment Harry was struck by how familiar he was – the very picture of the kind headmaster who'd always been there for Harry. When Dumbledore drew his wand, Harry tensed – but then he set it down at the edge of his desk and leaned back, placing the Elder Wand out of his reach.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbleore said with all the gravity one would expect if they'd passed one another in the corridor. "Please, sit down."

Harry sat, his eyes darting to the wand that lay between them.

"Relax," Dumbledore said, smiling that same kindly smile that he always did. "I did not ask you here to duel you."

"That's a relief," Harry said drily.

"I asked you here so that we could talk." Dumbledore picked up a jar from the corner of his desk, opened the lid, and offered the contents to Harry. "Chocolate frog?"

"Why not?" Harry asked. He took one of the squirming, enchanted chocolates and popped it into his mouth.

"If it tastes funny...just ignore it." Dumbledore smiled at the alarmed look on Harry's face. "That was a joke, Harry."

"Funny," Harry said. "Can we just...get on with it, headmaster?"

"Very well," Dumbledore sighed, and leaned back in his chair once more. "You're right, of course, Harry. About everything."

"So you're admitting that you're a dark wizard?" Harry asked, swallowing the last of the wriggling chocolate.

"Well," Dumbledore pursed his lips. "I wouldn't call myself a dark wizard, exactly. My intentions are pure. But – it's semantics, of course. I am plotting to seize control of both the Ministry and muggle governments all over the world, with the ultimate aim of installing a system of magical rule over the entire human population."

"Why?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Progress." Dumbledore said simply tenting his fingers. "Did you know that the Muggles actually put a man on the moon? Several of them, in fact. They flew there in something called a rocking ship."

"A rocket," Harry corrected with a frown. "And they did that in 1969. What's your point?"

"Imagine where we could go if that – rocket – was powered by magic. Imagine what wondrous discoveries wizards could make if we weren't preoccupied with hiding from Muggles. Humanity would be unstoppable, Harry – the things we would build, the power we would wield. It would be a new golden age, peace and prosperity all over the globe, united under one common goal."

"It's a nice idea," Harry said, frowning. "But that's not what you're doing. You're creating war – people are dying – so that you can take over. That's not peace, that's murder."

"Yes," Dumbledore admitted, his voice grave. "People have died. More people will die – many, many more. Do you know why I encouraged Tom Riddle to follow the path that led him to become Lord Voldemort?"

"Because you want to take over the muggle governments using the Frownden Act," Harry said, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

"My, you are well-informed." Dumbledore smiled at him, the proud smile of a teacher whose favorite pupil had just impressed them. "You are half-correct, Harry. You see, when people are at peace – and I'm talking about a lot of people, like a whole country – they grow stagnant. They find reasons to fight one another and halt progress. It is only in adversity – when people can see a common threat – that they truly band together and achieve great things."

"So you're – what?" Harry could feel his voice rising. "You're starting a war so that people will band together? That's absurd."

"Have you heard of the second world war, Harry?"

"Of course I have," Harry scowled. "It was probably the worst thing that ever happened."

"No," Dumbledore corrected. "It was the best thing. The muggles nearly tore themselves apart fighting one another – but it brought so many together. It ended a time of crushing poverty that had swept the globe. And even after the war, it led to competition between the States and Russia that, ultimately, spurred the muggles to go to the moon. That war brought humanity together in a way that we've never seen before."

"But what's your plan?" Harry said with a frown. "Use Voldemort as an excuse to take control of the muggles, and then what – start a war with them, too?"

"Not quite." Dumbledore smiled again. "I'll try to simplify it – it's quite a complicated plan, you see – but Voldemort is just the first step. With him as a threat, the Ministry of Magic can take control of Muggle Britain. Covertly, at first, of course; but with a few key Muggles under the Imperius curse, we'll have things running our way in no time."

"And then?"

"And then the real fight begins. Using the armies of Muggle Britain, we spark a conflict unlike this world has ever seen. A conflict that will push us over the precipice, and into greatness."

"So you set up World War III...millions of people will die. Hundreds of millions."

"Muggles," Dumbledore said, though his voice was not unsympathetic. "Yes. Wizards will be protected from the fighting, as will talented muggles – scientists, and so forth. Those that die will give their lives to propel mankind into a golden age of peace and advancement. We must break the world to fix it, Harry – that is a burden I am prepared to shoulder."

"And what happens when this new war ends?" Harry said, suddenly seeing a flaw in his plan. "Start a new one? Do it all over again?"

"At the end of the war, wizardkind will hold dominion over the globe." He explained, smiling softly. "No more hiding. Every man, woman and child will benefit from magic, and every wizard will benefit from muggle technology. The best of both worlds, united. Like a phoenix, our world will rise from the ashes of war reborn."

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked after a moment of consideration.

"Because I want you to help me," Dumbledore said simply. "I want you to stand at my side when I usher in this new age. And when I'm gone, I want you to continue my work. That is what I've always wanted, Harry. From the moment you threw a wrench into my plans by defeating Lord Voldemort, I knew it had to be you."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore held up his hand for silence.

"Don't answer now. Think about it. I never meant for you to find out this early in your life, but I am pleased to say that I underestimated your resourcefulness." Dumbledore smiled again, beaming proudly. "Think about it, and return to me with your answer. Take as long as you need, Harry."

Harry left the headmaster's office in something of a daze. He had to admit that Dumbledore's plan had a certain appeal. He had said that he wanted to break the world in order to fix it – manufacture not one war but two, create death on a scale that the world had never seen. Could it be worth it? Harry tried to imagine a limit on what mankind might accomplish if wizards and muggles worked together towards a common goal, and came up blank. No illness would be incurable, no star too distant – they would be like gods.

Yet even as Harry mulled this over, he was moving. He had a destination, someone that he knew would listen to him. Someone who may even help him. Fleur had been right about on thing – Harry had been looking for aid in the wrong places, and if he had to swallow his pride to build his army, he would do it. He found Draco Malfoy lounging at the Slytherin table, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle as usual. The white-haired boy sneered as he approached, elbowing Goyle to make sure his henchmen was glowering appropriately.

"Wrong table, Potter." Draco spat, glaring at Harry as though he were a piece of dung stuck to his shoe.

"We need to talk, Malfoy." Harry said, swallowing heavily. "In private."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"You're off your rocker, Potter." Draco Malfoy peered down the hallway to ensure that their conversation remained private. "I've got no love for Dumbledore but even I know that the old man is too pure for that."

"It's true, Draco." Harry said. He was too exhausted to argue with his old rival, or to even give thought to a rivalry that seemed so small and pointless. "Every word. Dumbledore told me himself, in his study."

"It's a trick," Draco scoffed, though the uncertainty in his eyes was plain to see as he watched Harry. "You're Dumbledore's favorite."

"I am," Harry agreed. "He wants me to help him take over the world, actually."

"So...say that I believe you. I don't, not one bit..." Malfoy was watching Harry like he might start foaming at the mouth. "But let's pretend for a minute that I did. What do you even want me to do?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted, and he collapsed against the wall with a sigh. "I just thought...well, you know what they say. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'."

"We're not friends," Malfoy said quickly, sneering. "And I would be crazy to make an enemy of Dumbledore. Especially if he's the master of the Elder Wand, like you said - "

"Was," Harry interrupted.

"What?" Draco frowned.

"He was the master of the Elder Wand," Harry said. "He's still got it, but I disarmed him – makes me the master."

"How do you know?" Draco asked, incredulous. "If he has it, doesn't that make him the master?"

"I became the master of Death after I disarmed him," Harry explained, hardly aware of how outlandish it all sounded. "I guess the wand considers me its master – it respects strength, or something..."

"The master of Death?" Draco sighed. "What does that even mean?"

"Death is a girl," Harry frowned. "Well, sort of. It's hard to explain. Death...helps me."

"She helps you." Draco echoed, staring at Harry with a mixture of pity and amusement. "Look, Potter...I'm all for bashing Dumbledore, but I think you do need help. Go to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey can - "

"He's not lying." Death was standing behind Malfoy, her arms folded in front of her and her spectral wings shrouded over her shoulders. "I am Death, Draco."

Harry had to admit that as dire as his situation was, it was rather amusing to see Draco jump out of his own skin when he saw her. He scooted closer to Harry, reflexively reaching for his wand.

"What is that?" He asked, raising his wand with trembling fingers.

"It's Death," Harry said, placing a gently hand on Malfoy's wrist and lowering his wand. "I told you, Malfoy. It's all real."

"But you..." Malfoy's head was on a swivel as his gaze darted between Harry and Death. "No, there's no way. You can't be Death."

Death simply frowned, considering Malfoy's words for a moment, before she reached out one hand. She paused when Malfoy flinched, lifting her pure white eyes to his face. The blonde boy's lips parted as she stared at him, and he stood transfixed as Death laid her hand on the bare flesh of his wand hand. The moment her skin touched his, his eyes widened, a mingled expression of fascination and horror that Harry knew all-too-well.

"What..." Draco's mouth worked wordlessly, his eyes lost in Death's pupil-less pools.

"Shh," Death said, and slowly removed her hand from Draco's. The boy drew his hands in to his chest, unable to tear his eyes from Death's face.

"I told you," Harry said, though he took no pleasure in it. "It's all real, Draco. I wish it wasn't."

"I don't..." Finally, Draco seemed to shake himself free of whatever trance he'd fallen into. "What do we do? No one will believe us."

"I was hoping you'd ask your father for help." Harry said, swallowing heavily. "And his friends."

"I don't think they'd go for that," Draco said, shaking his head as he drew his robes tighter around himself. "I...I don't think you'd like them very much, either."

"I don't have to like them," Harry said, frowning. "Everyone that I liked has either turned on me or disappeared. I need allies, powerful allies, and I've got no one left to turn to."

"Harry – I don't like you. You know that right?" Despite Malfoy's words, there was no venom in his voice.

"I know," Harry said flatly. "I don't like you very much either. That doesn't mean that we can't help each other."

"Just listen," Malfoy said, impatience creeping into his voice. "I don't like you. But my father? And his friends? They hate you. Ok? You took everything away from them without even trying. Do you think they're going to just...offer to help you? Forget everything that happened?"

"No," Harry said with a shrug. "I expect them to take advantage of an opportunity. Which is why I came to you first. I want to talk to your father...he's smart, he knows how to seize an advantage when he has one."

"And what advantage is that?" Malfoy asked, clearly confused.

"If I tell Dumbledore that I'm going to go along with his plan, I'll know everything." Harry said, leaning in intently. "Or at least more than we know now."

"Wait - " Malfoy said, shaking his head. "You want to be some kind of spy? Against Dumbledore, are you crazy? He'll see right through you."

"I don't think so," Harry said firmly. "Dumbledore's brilliant, but he knows that he's brilliant. I really don't think that he can imagine that I'd refuse his offer."

"Harry, I don't know..." Malfoy looked between Harry and Death once more. "I don't know why I'm trying to protect you. If you want to meet with Father, be my guest. If I'm lucky, he'll get rid of you permanently."

"Great," Harry said, nodding. "When?"

"Why not tomorrow?" Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. "There's a governor's meeting...I'm sure he can find time to listen to all...this."

"Governor's meeting?" Harry frowned, reaching to push his glasses up. "I thought your father was removed from the board of governors. You know, when he tried to curse them?"

"You think something like that would stick to someone like Father?" Draco laughed dismissively. "You don't understand anything, Potter. He had his post back within the year, once he made the accusations against him disappear. He's not the chairman again, though – not yet, anyway."

"Typical," Harry said with a sigh. "Though maybe that's the kind of person I need."

"Potter," Malfoy said suddenly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you remember when we first met? What I said to you?"

"You said that some kinds of wizards were better than others," Harry said, scowling at the pretentious boy. "Meaning pure bloods."

"I also said that I could help you choose your friends wisely." Draco smirked, looking Harry up and down. "Turns out I was right, wasn't I?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak he suddenly realized that he didn't have an argument against what Malfoy had said.

The governors met in a room that Harry had never set foot in, a meeting chamber apparently designed for that very purpose that was located off the first floor corridor. On Draco's instruction, Harry had arrived at the door to the meeting room just five minutes before the meeting was scheduled to end, yet he had to wait for over an hour before the witches and wizards that made up the board of governors began to file out one-by-one.

Lucius came last, his silver-handled cane tapping on the stone tiles as he walked. He smiled when he spotted Harry; an oily, well-practiced smile that didn't reach his flinty eyes. He didn't speak, but he motioned sharply with one gloved hand for Harry to join him inside the meeting room.

The chamber was large and well-appointed, dominated by a massive circular wooden table around which twelve chairs were arranged. The chairs and table both were made of a dark, rich wood that Harry thought might be mahogany – though he wasn't certain. Lucius sank into one of the red-cushioned chairs with a sigh, pulling off his gloves one after another as he watched Harry lower himself uncertainly into a chair opposite him.

"Well, well, well." The silver-haired man said, smirking slightly. "I didn't think you'd actually come, Potter."

"Well, I did." Harry said, and immediately felt stupid for it. "I, uh, wanted to talk to you."

"Yes, Draco told me." Lucius pursed his lips, canting his head to the side. Those unsettling gray eyes never left Harry's. "He told me that you have some interesting things to say about Albus Dumbledore. Very interesting things indeed."

"Yes, I - " Harry began, but Lucius held up a hand to silence him.

"Don't say them. Not here." Malfoy sighed, looking away from Harry for the first time since he'd entered the meeting chamber. "This castle serves the headmaster, Harry. Things you say in here might as well be whispered in his ear. In fact I'm rather curious as to how you've managed to avoid his notice thus far."

"I haven't, actually." Harry admitted. "He knows that I know."

"Yes, but one would think that if he knew you were meeting me here – which, by all accounts he should – he would have intercepted one or both of us before this rendezvous took place. And yet...here we are." Lucius smiled, thin-lipped and dangerous. "Why?"

"I helped," Death said, standing behind Lucius as though she'd been there the entire time. "I can keep him from listening."

"Ah, you must be the avatar of Death I've heard so much about." To his credit, Lucius didn't so much as blink as he turned to face Death. "Yes...you do look the part, don't you?"

"I do?" Death blinked, and canted her head as she watched Lucius. "Draco didn't believe me."

"Draco is a boy," Lucius said with a shrug. "He has much to learn about the world."

"So now you know that it's safe to talk," Harry said. "Do you want to hear what I have to say?"

"By all means," Lucius said, leaning back and laying his cane over his lap. "Regale me with what you know."

"Well..." Harry swallowed heavily.

He knew that once he started talking, there was no turning away from this path. He was suddenly filled with doubt, looking at the silver-haired man across from him. He'd hated Draco Malfoy and his family from the moment he'd met them, and now he was asking them for help? Dumbledore being who he was didn't change anything about the Malfoys. They were still slimy, unscrupulous, and self-serving.

"Well?" Lucius echoed, impatience dripping from his tone.

"It all started during the first task." Harry sighed, making up his mind all at once. "I spoke with the dragon – Sarchanie, is her name – and she told me that Voldemort isn't my true enemy."

"Yes, I've heard of your new pet." Lucius sniffed. "Very clever, Potter."

"She's more of a friend than a pet, now." Harry said with a frown. "Anyway, she helped me break into the Department of Mysteries, where - "

"You're lying," Lucius interrupted. "No one can break into the Department of Mysteries. The layers of magical protection that guard it are far beyond your comprehension – many of them are beyond mine, as well."

"I'm not lying," Harry said through gritted teeth. "But I didn't do anything, either. You've heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"I'm familiar with the legend." Lucius said carefully.

"It's not a legend. The Hallows are real, and I've got two of them."

"But to be the master of death, mustn't one possess them all?" Lucius had clearly affected his most patronizing tone, but Harry ignored him.

"You need to be the master of them all. I disarmed Dumbeldore, and that makes me - "

"You disarmed Dumbledore?" Lucius asked, leaning forward in his chair. "You dueled him?"

"No – well, not really – just listen." Harry sighed, running a hand over his face. "I need to start at the beginning. You can ask you questions at the end. Deal?"

Lucius pursed his lips, watching Harry for a long moment. "Deal."

"Right, okay. So I broke into the Department of Mysteries – Death's shroud doesn't just make me invisible, it makes me undetectable. None of the charms even knew I was there. Sarchanie told me that there was a prophecy – one that would tell me the identity of the true dark lord."

"How did she know?" Lucius asked, then immediately held his hands up in silent apology. "Continue."

"It took hours," Harry said, casting his mind back to that bizarre time he'd spent beneath the Ministry of Magic. "But we found it, eventually. It was bewitched to look like something else – a prophecy about chickens, I think. Every time I looked at it it was like looking at the most boring thing on the face of the planet...Sarchanie undid the enchantment, and I was able to see what it truly was."

"And?" Lucius prompted, impatient. "I suppose it didn't outright name Dumbledore as the next Dark Lord?"

"Not exactly," Harry said. "It was vague. I brought it back to the school and we did some research on it – trying to figure out who the prophecy was referring to. We went through every book we could find, searched through every record of notable witches or wizards – living and dead. Took ages, but we narrowed it down to one name."

"Dumbledore, I presume," Lucius drawled.

"Yes," Harry affirmed. "We didn't believe it either, not at first, but..."

Harry paused, casting his mind back to the start of everything – when they'd first discovered the prophecy, and all that had come with it. It all seemed so long ago, like another life lived by someone else. So much had happened and in such a short span of time that it nearly made Harry's head spin. It was helping, in a way, to lay everything out to someone – even if that someone was Lucius Malfoy.

"We found proof. The prophecy mentioned Hallows – the Deathly Hallows – and we traced the Elder Wand to Dumbledore. I disarmed him, like I said, but he still has the wand – I'm its master, but I couldn't get it from him. We spoke with his brother, Aberforth...he had a letter, from Voldemort, thanking Dumbledore for the private lessons over the years. And finally...he told me everything. Dumledore, I mean. He admitted to it all."

"Why would he do that?" Lucius asked with a scowl.

"Because he wants me to join him," Harry said. "He wants me to...help him take over the world, I guess, and then take over his work when he's gone."

"Take over the world?" Lucius Malfoy raised one amused brow. "Isn't that a bit trite for a wizard of Albus Dumbledore's caliber?"

"He helped Voldemort rise to power," Harry said. Lucius' constant quips were starting to get on his nerves. "He wants a war, so that he can unite the wizarding world...and then take over Muggle Britain using the Frownden act."

"The Frownden act?" Lucius frowned, trying to recall. "Isn't that a piece of legislature pushed through by that muggle-lover? I don't see how – oh. Oh, very clever..."

"Once he has Muggle Britain under his control, he's going to start a war among muggles and bring muggles everywhere under wizard control." Harry shook his head slowly. "He has some...vision, I guess, of what the world could be like if muggles and wizards worked together."

"Hmm," Lucius said. "Well, Potter, that's really all quite a fascinating story...I assume you have something more for me. That letter, perhaps?"

"I don't have it," Harry said miserably. "I gave it to Alastor Moody and asked him to help me, but he disappeared."

"I see," Lucius said with a frown, and Harry's heart sank as the silver-haired man moved to stand. "Well..."

"Please, sir." Harry said, swallowing what little of his pride remained. "I have no one else to turn to for help. I'm telling the truth."

Lucius paused, hovering between standing and sitting, before he finally lowered himself back into his chair with a sigh.

"There might be...one way, Harry. Have you ever heard of Legilimency?"

"No," Harry said with a frown. "What is it?"

"It's a school of magic," Lucius explained, tenting his fingers as he peered at Harry. "One that allows one wizard to access the mind of another by means of a spell."

"Like...mind reading, then?" Harry's blood turned to ice in his veins.

"It's often called that, but no." Lucius frowned. "It allows the wizard using Legilimency to access thoughts, feelings, senses...sometimes memories. The mind is a complex thing, Potter, it isn't like rifling through a filing cabinet to select the memory you want."

"Why are you telling me this?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I want to use Legilimency on you to determine the veracity of your tail," Lucius said. "But I'll need your cooperation. I'm a not a master of the art, and you will have to guide us to the pertinent memories in order for me to examine them."

"I see," Harry said, swallowing heavily. Letting Lucius Malfoy poke around inside his brain was not something that Harry particularly relished.

"You have to understand, Harry," Lucius said, and for the first time his haughty veneer had given way to something more honest. "Taking any stance against Dumbledore is a tremendous risk. Suicidal, even. You can't expect me to do it on your word alone."

"Fair enough," Harry said, nodding once. He considered for only a moment more. "Do it."

"Do try to relax," Lucius said, leaning forward to fix Harry with a piercing stare. "Legilimens."

Harry braced himself, not entirely sure what to expect. Yet as Lucius Malfoy stared deeply into his eyes, Harry didn't feel particularly different. Malfoy's invasion was a subtle, slippery thing – the vaguest sensation of coolness at the back of his skull, and the unnerving feeling like he was being watched in a room where he had been quite sure he was alone. Then he heard Malfoy speak – but his lips never moved. Harry nearly yelped when he realized his voice was inside his own head.

Show me, Lucius prompted. Show me when Dumbledore told you.

Feeling profoundly self conscious, Harry deliberately thought back to his meeting with Dumbledore. It was like thinking with two minds – Harry tried his best to recall it in perfect detail, but Malfoy's presence in his mind nudged him to recall certain facts, repeat certain phrases. He tried his best to keep his thoughts focused; he didn't want Malfoy seeing anything that Harry wished to be kept private. Malfoy bade him to recall the meeting three times, in all; at the end of the third Harry felt the cool presence withdraw from his mind. It was replaced with a splitting headache almost immediately.

"Ah, yes, some have that reaction," Lucius said, noticing Harry wince and lift his hand to his forehead. "It should pass in a day or two."

"A day or two?" Harry asked, exasperated. "Did you find what you were looking for, at least?"

"I did," Lucius said, smiling thinly. He stood and picked up his cane, his gaze never leaving Harry's. "I'll be in touch."

With that, the elder Malfoy left the room, leaving Harry more unsure of his aid than before.

"The bacon," Sarchanie prompted, her glittering eyes fixed on the morsel on Harry's plate. "That's my favorite."

Harry smiled faintly as he lifted the bit of bacon to Sarchanie's miniature maw, where she devoured it in a single bite. The shrunken horntail licked her chops, and then with a contented sigh she curled up around Harry's neck and drifted off to sleep. Dinner that evening had been a somber affair for Harry – he sat alone, as he had for the past few days, and ate in silence aside from the occasional hissing banter with Sarchanie.

He hadn't seen Hermione since she'd informed him that the headmaster was looking for him. Perhaps she was avoiding him – Harry was certainly avoiding her – but he couldn't deny that he missed having her close. Perhaps he'd taken for granted how comforting her presence was, and the knowledge that he could rely on her quick and practical mind to get him out of nearly any jam. Losing that was like losing a piece of himself.

The food on his plate went largely untouched, an after a few minutes of staring sullenly at it he shoved it away with a sigh. He was just preparing to stand when a familiar voice cut in behind him.

"'Arry?" Fleur said, and when Harry turned around he saw her looking at him with a smile. "Walk with me, won't you?"

"Sure," Harry agreed with a shrug. He didn't have anything better to do, and it would feel nice to talk to someone without hissing.

They left the great hall at a leisurely pace, and soon found themselves wandering the grounds as the sun set over the rolling hills that surrounded the castle. They walked in companionable silence, both waiting until they could speak without being overheard without truly realizing it. They'd nearly reached Hagrid's hut before Fleur spoke.

"'Ow are you feeling, 'Arry?" She asked, peering at his face with a concerned expression. "You look tired."

"Yeah, I guess I am." Despite his fatigue, Harry worked up a smile. "But I'm alright."

"Do you 'ave trouble sleeping?" She asked.

"Most nights," Harry nodded. There was no sense in hiding it. "Actually, the last night that I really slept well was after we..."

Fleur hid her smile behind her gloved hand. "I haven't forgotten."

"It was, um..." Harry struggled to find the words to describe the night that they had shared, and when he failed he settled on a grin.

"It was, wasn't it?" Fleur agreed, lowering her hand to reveal a brilliant smile.

"So...what's up?" Harry asked at last. Sarchanie had fallen fast sleep around his neck, snoring softly.

"I wanted to talk," Fleur said, looking away from Harry and towards the sunset over the lake.

"Alright," Harry said. "What about?"

"Well…" Fleur seemed reluctant to say whatever was on her mind, but finally after a long moment of silence she looked up to meet Harry's gaze. "Ze girls say that you are with 'Ermione...zat you were with her when we spent our night together."

"That's….complicated," Harry said with a grimace. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robes and looked away from Fleur.

"It's not," she countered with a slight frown. "You either were, or you weren't."

"I was," Harry said with a sigh. "Technically."

"You betrayed 'er," she said with a frown. Her voice dropped, and Harry knew that she was disappointed.

"Well…" Harry frowned. "It is complicated. She betrayed me, first."

"She did?" Fleur asked, peering at Harry's face curiously. "How?"

"I was counting on her to stick up for me and stand by my side," The boy who lived sighed, lowering himself to the grass slowly. "And she wasn't there when I needed her the most."

"What do you mean?" Fleur asked, persistent.

"I…" Harry shook his head. He didn't know if he had the energy to explain everything to her. "It's a long story, Fleur. There's something that I know...something that no one else believes. Something big, and trying to get people to believe me and help me hasn't been easy. We were trying to convince some friends...well, people who I thought were friends...and Hermione didn't stand up for me."

"Maybe she was scared," Fleur suggested.

"Maybe," Harry said. The thought had certainly occurred to him. "But we're all scared. I'm scared. It doesn't stop me from trying to do what I know is right."

"I think you're being too 'ard on her, 'Arry." Fleur's expression had softened, and she ank into the grass beside him with her robes pooling about her legs elegantly. "You can't expect everyone to have your courage."

"Maybe," Harry agreed, though his reply lacked conviction. "It just...I don't know. I've always been able to rely on Hermione, of all people. She's always been there for me. She took that away and it feels like...someone just yanked the chair out from under me right as I was about to sit down. I feel more alone now than I ever have."

"Well," Fleur said, canting her head to the side as she watched Harry. "Did you take my advice? Look for help in different places?"

"I did...I mean, I am. But it isn't the same. Hermione was my friend, we trusted each other. I could tell her anything without being afraid of ridicule. But these new allies I'm trying to make...I can't trust them. I feel like there's no one around me that I can trust anymore."

"I think you should talk to 'er," Fleur suggested. "Such a friendship is too valuable to lose, 'Arry."

"I just…" Harry drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't stop thinking about the way she just...sat there. And let them tear me apart."

"People make mistakes, 'Arry." Fleur laid a gloved hand on his arm, and her smile was gentle. "She doesn't have your courage, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care about you."

"Maybe you're right," Harry said, poking miserably at a tuft of grass. "I just don't know how to talk to her now. After what we both did."

"Be honest," Fleur suggested. "Just be lay everything out for her, and you can both start fresh."

"I suppose you're right," he said after a long moment of consideration. "But I can't imagine that this is going to be a fun conversation."

"Probably not," Fleur agreed. "But it takes a different kind of courage to own up to your mistakes, and to forgive others for theirs."

"Yeah." Harry nodded, letting his breath out in another sigh. "Thanks, Fleur."

Fleur smiled and leaned in, wrapping her arms around Harry in a tight embrace. Even then, the nearness of her was intoxicating - as his hands settled on her back, he couldn't help but think back to that night they'd spent together. They embraced for a long time, and as Fleur pulled away she paused, leaned in, and kissed him on the lips.

"Hermione is a lucky girl," she whispered, her smile tinged with sadness.

"I - " Whatever Harry had been about to say was lost, for as Fleur pulled back he saw a figure standing in the field, watching them.

It was Hermione.

"Hermione!" Harry called, and he sprang away from Fleur as though she was made of acid.

Hermione was silent for a long time, staring at him with hand lifted to cover her mouth. The expression on her face was heartbreaking; she was looking at Harry as though he had ripped her heart out with his bare hands and spat on it. Harry stepped forward,his arm outstretched, but she stopped him with a quick shake of her head.

"Hermione, please," Harry said. "Let me explain, we need to talk."

"No," Hermione said sharply, taking a step back from him. "No, you don't need to explain anything, Harry. This is all pretty clear."

"Wait!" Harry called, but it was too late. Hermione was already running back to the castle.

"I'm sorry, 'Arry." Fleur sounded miserable. "I shouldn't have...it's my fault."

"No, it's fine." Harry sighed. "She needs to know what happened either way."

"Just give 'er time. She will come around." Fleur suggested, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.

"Yeah," Harry replied miserably. "Well. Thanks, Fleur - I'll see you around."

Harry trudged back to the castle alone, his head hung low. He looked for Hermione in the usual placed he'd expect to find her - the library, the great hall, and the common room - but she wasn't anywhere to be found. Eventually he gave up the search, and crawled into his bed with a sigh. He'd certainly run into her later...until then, he'd just have to work out what he wanted to say.

As it happened, Hermione was especially adept at avoiding him. He saw her often, of course, but never in a setting where they could speak. She left class without speaking to him, ate her meals somewhere else, and disappeared to the girl's dormitory the moment she returned to the common room. He would have followed her up there, just to get a chance to speak with her, but he knew that the enchantment on the staircase would send him sliding right back down again.

He would simply have to wait. Maybe Fleur was right, and all she needed was time. Still, the waiting filled him with anxiety - knowing that the confrontation was coming and that he would have to own up to his actions ate at him.

He didn't even have that much to keep his mind from it. Quidditch had been cancelled, and after fake-Moody had revealed his plans for the final task the Triwizard tournament had been cancelled as well. Despite the lack of demands on his time, he found that he couldn't focus on his schoolwork. His grades were slipping, but he found it difficult to care. He spent his time sitting in the common room alone, his homework splayed out over his lap, staring at his assignments hopelessly night after night.

"Hey, Harry." Neville Longbottom's voice startled Harry out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see the boy's round face peering at him with concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Harry said, shaking his head to clear the fog. "Yeah, Neville, I'm alright."

"You sure?" Neville slid into the armchair beside him, though Harry wished he wouldn't have. "It's just...well, you used to be hanging out with Ron and Hermione all the time, and now you guys don't even look at each other."

"Yeah, well," Harry shrugged and stared sullenly down at his herbology homework. "People change, I guess."

"I dunno, Harry." Neville frowned. "I can't imagine what would tear you guys apart."

"It's a long story," Harry sighed. "I found out about something that Ron didn't want to believe, and he thinks I'm a liar. And Hermione...well, we were both weak, and hurt each other."

"Well, Harry." Neville was still frowning. "The truth is the truth, yeah? If you can show Ron proof - he can be a bit stubborn, but he's a good person. He'll come around."

"Maybe," Harry sighed. "I don't know if I want him to."

"And Hermione...well, if you hurt each other, just be honest. People make mistakes, that's what makes us human."

"You're not the first person to suggest that," Harry said with a faint smile. "And I'd love to follow your advice, but she won't even talk to me."

"She will, I'm sure of it." Neville smiled, laying a hand on Harry's arm. "She just needs time. So...what did you find out, anyway? That made Ron angry?"

"Oh, it's a long story, Neville." Harry shook his head - he wasn't sure he wanted to explain the whole thing again, particularly not to Neville. "I - "

"Sirius Black is waiting for you at the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Death was leaning over Harry's shoulder, whispering in his ear so close that he could feel her breath on his neck like a cool breeze.

"I have to go," Harry said. Judging from Neville's confused expression, he clearly couldn't see Death over Harry's shoulder. "Sorry, Neville. I'll talk to you later."

Harry left Neville sitting in the common room, looking confused and disappointed, and went up to his trunk to get the invisibility cloak. Wrapped in the silky shroud, he slipped past Neville and through the portrait of the fat lady. It was late, and the corridors were mostly deserted at that hour. Still, Harry kept a watchful eye out for anyone - if Sirius was really out there, the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to him.

He managed to leave the castle without incident. The grounds were desolate; even the moon had turned its back on Hogwarts, with the thinnest sliver visible in the sky. Harry made his way past Hagrid's hut and to the edge of the forest. There was no sign of Sirius - but then, Harry didn't expect that there would be. His godfather had become very adept at hiding himself ever since he'd escaped from Azkaban.

Harry removed his cloak, folded it neatly, and tucked it beneath his arm. It was a chilly night, and he suddenly found himself wishing that he'd worn a sweater. There was nothing he could do about it now, however, so he simply wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. He didn't have long to wait, however - after a few moments, a familiar shaggy black dog came trotting from the woods. Moments later, his godfather stood before him.

"Harry!" Sirius whispered, wrapping his arms around his godson as Harry rushed in for an embrace. "How did you know that I was here? I had a whole plan for getting your attention…"

"That is a very long story," Harry said, giving Sirius one last squeeze before letting him go and stepping back. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I heard from Arthur about your...well, the things you've been saying." Sirius peered at Harry very closely, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It's….well, this is serious, Harry."

"I suppose you don't believe me, either." Harry sighed and looked away.

"What?" Sirius craned his neck to catch Harry's gaze once more. "Of course I believe you. How could you say that?"

The relief that flooded Harry was almost palpable. It his knees weak, cleared away weeks of fog and anxiety. He wasn't sure what Sirius could do to help him as a fugitive - or if he could do anything at all - but simply knowing that his godfather believed in him enough to accept his word without challenging it was enough to give Harry a newfound confidence.

"Sorry," Harry said, unable to hide the grin that crept over his face. "You're the first one to take my word for everything."

"We're family, Harry." Sirius said, giving Harry's shoulder a little squeeze. "That's what we do. Now tell me everything - spare no detail."

Harry and Sirius sat down on the grass together, and Harry told him everything. Huddled close and and sharing Sirius' warm cloak to ward off the chill, Harry meticulously recounted his tale. He left nothing out, and even told him of Hermione and the night he'd spent with Fleur. Finally, he recounted how he'd gone to the Malfoy's in desperation, and Sirius' face turned grim.

"Harry, tell me you didn't." Sirius shook his head slowly. "The Malfoys?"

"I…" Harry swallowed heavily. "I didn't know who else to turn too, Sirius. All of my friends had left me, none of my teachers or other adults believed a word of my story, and - "

"Why didn't you come to me, Harry?" Sirius asked, and Harry could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Because…." Harry sighed. "I didn't want to bring any more trouble down on you. It seems like you've had enough to deal with without me adding to it."

"Harry," Sirius chided. "Helping you is never trouble. That's why I'm here. From now on, I don't care what it is...if you have a problem, you can bring it to me. OK?"

"Alright." Harry nodded, and suddenly felt like a fool. Why hadn't he turned to Sirius, the only one he considered family that he had left? "What are we going to do?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Sirius admitted. "The Weasleys are a lost cause. They belong to Dumbledore, through and through, and without the most concrete proof right in front of their eyes they will never change their views on that."

"That's why I went to the Malfoys…" Harry said. "I couldn't think of anyone else that would believe me. All of my friends are more loyal to Dumbledore than they are to me."

"Do you think that's a coincidence?" Sirius asked, peering at Harry intently. "He placed you in a home where you would be kept entirely ignorant of the wizarding world, and then he sent Hagrid to introduce you to it. Hagrid is a good man, but I can't think of anyone more loyal to Dumbledore."

Harry frowned, thinking back. Sirius was right, of course; from the moment he'd been introduced to the wizarding world, he'd been surrounded by some of Dumbledore's most loyal followers. Hagrid had led him away from the Malfoys and towards the Weasleys, and the Weasley's acceptance of Harry - their willingness to accept him into their family when he had none of his own - had colored his entire experience with wizardkind.

"I guess you're right." Harry said. "I never realized how deep his plans went...or how many of the people who I thought were friends were simply pawns in his game."

"Don't be so quick to discard your friendships, Harry." Sirius' face was gentle. "They may have been engineered to benefit Dumbledore, but that doesn't mean they weren't genuine. People are drawn to you, Harry - and you can use that to your advantage here, too."

"I don't know," Harry said with a sigh. "It doesn't seem to matter if they were drawn to me or not. They all abandoned me once I took a stand against Dumbledore."

"People flock to Dumbledore, too," Sirius said. "And he's been at this far longer than you have, Harry."

"I don't feel safe here anymore," Harry said suddenly. "Hogwarts used to be my home, but now…"

"Well. There are other magical schools in Europe." Sirius suggested. "Beauxbatons, Durmstrang…even Ilvermorny, if you wanted to go to the States."

"You mean…" Harry frowned. "Leave Hogwarts? I don't know…"

"It might be in your best interests, Harry. Dumbledore is extremely powerful, and here...well, he's even more powerful at Hogwarts."

"I…" Harry didn't quite know what to say. His entire life, Hogwarts had been his home - he couldn't imagine leaving. "I don't know. How would I even get there?"

"Money," Sirius said with a shrug. "You've got plenty of that."

"Only as a last resort," Harry said at last. "Leaving doesn't feel right. I can't explain it, but...I just feel like this is where I belong. And I won't run away."

"Think of it as a tactical retreat," Sirius said, offering Harry a halfhearted smile.

"That doesn't really help," Harry said, but he smiled all the same.

"I know." Sirius sighed, his smile fading as he looked at Harry earnestly. "You're just like your father, Harry. But listen to this: there's nothing cowardly about avoiding a fight you can't win. And if you go up against Dumbledore now, you have no chance of walking away."

"I know," Harry said with a sigh. "And I just feel like the longer I stay here, the more danger I'm in."

"There's something else, too," Sirius said, though he seemed slightly hesitant.

"What is it?" Harry asked, looking up at his godfather with a frown.

"Well," Sirius said slowly, "I didn't want to tell you...because I don't want it to influence your decision. But if you did leave Britain, I could go with you. Out of the country, I could live a normal life - well, almost normal, anyway."

"Sirius, I - " Harry swallowed heavily. He could only imagine what it would be like to live with Sirius, like they'd always planned to before Pettigrew had escaped. "That would be amazing."

"Again," Sirius said. "Don't let it influence your decision. Just know that I'm here, Harry, and that I support your choices no matter what they are."

"Even if it means going to the Malfoys for help?" Harry asked, casting his eyes down to his shoes.

Sirius heaved a sigh. "Even that," he said after a moment. "I don't like them, Harry, and they're not your friends. But I can't think of anyone who has a bigger grudge against Dumbledore. If anyone is going to bring their full power to bear against him and support you with everything they've got, it's going to be them. Just...please, Harry, you've got to be careful."

"I will," Harry promised. "Don't worry about that."

"Good," Sirius said with a smile. "Now. Tell me how things are going at school."

Harry was reluctant at first, but after he began filling in Sirius on the details of his school life he realized how much he'd needed someone to talk to. Unburdening himself from all the 'mundane' details of school life was strangely liberating; he told his godfather about his slipping grades, his difficulties surrounding Hermione and Fleur and even Death, and how utterly alone he'd felt since his friends had abandoned him.

Sirius listened with all the attentiveness Harry would have expected from a parent, offering advice or consolations wherever it was appropriate. Even if he didn't have anything to tell Harry that he didn't already know, it was a massive relief to simply talk to someone who cared for a while. When Harry had gotten everything out he sighed, feeling slightly deflated but more at peace than he had in weeks.

"Thanks for listening, Sirius." Harry said.

"You don't have to thank me," Sirius assured him, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. "That's what I'm here for."

"I should probably get inside before anyone notices that I'm missing," Harry said reluctantly. Leaving Sirius' company as about the last thing he wanted to do, but he also didn't need any more trouble on his head than he already had.

"You're probably right," Sirius said, and Harry heard the same sort of reluctance in his voice. "Go on, now. Get some rest before tomorrow. And think about what I've said...Hogwarts isn't the only place for someone like you, Harry."

"I will," Harry said. "Be safe, Sirius."

"I always am," Sirius said with a smirk, and then his form shimmered and was replaced by that familiar shaggy black dog.

Harry watched Sirius pad away into the Forbidden forest, filled with a sense of longing. He wished more than anything that he could go with him, follow him into whatever hiding place he'd discovered for himself. Nothing sounded more appealing than a life on the run, one where he could leave all of his problems behind and simply live each day like it was his last.

Of course, he knew that he couldn't do that. He longed for such a release, but he knew that his conscience would never allow him to have it. Instead, he threw his invisibility cloak around himself and began the long, slow trudge back to the castle and his problems.

Harry had been searching for an opportunity to speak alone with Hermione ever since she'd seen him with Fleur, but she was remarkably adept at avoiding. In fact, it was nearly a week before he was able to get her alone - and he was only able to do it because she had fallen asleep in an armchair while doing her homework. Harry himself had been studying in the library, trying to catch up on his potions homework without realizing how late it had gotten.

He slipped through the Fat Lady's portrait as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake up the students who were sleeping in the dormitory towers, but he nearly dropped his books when he saw Hermione curled up in a big, squashy armchair with her herbology homework open on her lap. Movingly slowly and doing his best to move as quietly as possible. He slid into the chair beside her and set his books down.

Harry felt like a creep, but he spent a moment simply watching her. It had been so long since he'd seen her or spent any amount of time with her, it felt in some ways surreal to be this close to her. Finally, he figured that he should stop spying on her, and he cleared his throat conspicuously with the hopes of waking her up.

"Hmm?" Hermione mumbled, shifting on her chair slightly. Her voice was thick with sleep. "Who's there?"

"It's me," Harry said quietly.

All at once, Hermione was awake. She jerked upright, scattering her homework on the floor. The look on her face when she saw Harry was one of mingled horror and fury, ands he dropped to the floor at once to gather he spilled parchments. From the businesslike way she was gathering her things, Harry could surmise that she was preparing to leave.

"Hermione, wait." Harry said, leaning forward and placing his hand on her shoulder. "Please, I want to talk."

"I don't want to talk," Hermione said, jerking away from his touch. "I need to get to bed."

"Please," Harry said again. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I screwed up. Let's just talk about it, that's all I'm asking."

Hermione paused in her frantic gathering, and heaved a sigh that sounded as if she had the weight of the world pressing on her lungs. She seemed to be considering for a long moment as she reorganized her homework into a neat pile on her lap, and it was only after she'd replaced them in her bag and sat back down that she spoke.

"Alright, Harry." She said carefully, not quite looking him in the eye. "Let's talk."

"What you saw with Fleur...that wasn't what you think," Harry said trying and failing to catch Hermione's eye.

"She kissed you, Harry." She said. "And from what I saw it didn't look like you were trying to stop it."

"It was more of a friendly kiss," Harry said with a grimace. "We were talking - about you and I - and she was telling me that I should talk to you."

"So you only came to talk to me because Fleur told you to?" Hermione asked, eyeing Harry with an incredulous look on her face. "That's nice."

"No," Harry said with a frown. "I wanted to talk to you - I was just angry, Hermione, after what happened at the Weasleys."

"I already apologized for that," Hermione said, and Harry could hear the effort she was putting into holding herself together. "I was scared, and - "

"I know," Harry said. "It's alright, Hermione."

"So, you and Fleur…" Hermione said, once again looking away from Harry as she chose her words carefully. "Was it...I mean, did you…"

"I made a mistake," Harry said. "I was...angry, and hurt, and I felt like everyone had abandoned me. And...she was just there."

"But all you did was kiss her?" Hermione asked, meeting Harry's gaze for the first time that night. Her expression was hopeful.

"Ah…" Harry grimaced.

He wished he could have lied to her. He wished more than absolutely anything that he could have simply told her what she wanted to hear, and let everything go back to the way it had been. He wished more than anything that he could simply take away Hermione's pain with a simple lie...but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"No," Harry said at last, looking away. "Not exactly."

"I see," Hermione said. Her voice quivered with the effort of holding back tears. "I had heard rumors, but...I didn't want to believe them…"

"It was a mistake," Harry repeated. He could feel Hermione's heart breaking from where he was sitting. "I wasn't thinking clearly, Hermione...I'm sorry."

Hermione didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared off into space and nodded - as if she agreed with what he'd said. Finally, she wiped at her eyes and gathered her papers together once more. With her books and schoolwork clutched once more to her chest, she seemed to regain a bit more of her composure. When she looked at Harry tears still shone in her eyes, but her voice at least was firm.

"I know I hurt you, Harry." She said, lifting her chin. "And I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you when you needed me. But I can't find it in me to forgive this. I will still help you - I'm still on your side, this is too big for me to quit. But I can't be with you, and right now I can't be your friend. Just...just let me know what you need from me, and I'll do it."

Hermione seemed to be on the verge of saying more, but instead she simply nodded once. Then she turned on her heel and left, walking up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Harry listened for the sounds of her crying, but he heard nothing. Then again, he knew how skilled Hermione was with charms.

Harry sighed and leaned back against his chair. He'd thought that talking things out with Hermione would make him feel better - no more secrets or guilt gnawing away at him - but now he just felt empty. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He wasn't irritable or angry or sad, he just felt nothing. He stared numbly at the fire, his finger tracing little patterns on the armrest of his chair, silently berating himself for being such a fool.

"You're sad," Death said. Harry had long ago become immune to Death's sudden appearances.

"I don't know what I am," Harry said softly, not bothering to look up at her. "Except an idiot."

"It's strange," Death said, and at that Harry looked up. She was curled up before the fire, staring into it much like Harry had been. "I've never felt...well, anything. Not that I can remember. But since I've been with you, I can feel everything."

"Why is that?" Harry asked - a small ray of curiosity managed to pierce through his apathy.

"I don't know," she admitted. She shifted on the carpet to look at Harry, and to his surprise tears were glistening in her wide eyes. "I've never had a master before. Maybe this bond means that some piece of you lives within me, now? Or maybe I'm just...awake, now. Sensitive to you."

"I'm sorry," Harry said after a moment. "I didn't mean to hurt you, too. But it seems like that's all I'm good at."

"Shhh," Death said, looking up at him with a frown. "Don't talk like that, Harry. You know it isn't true."

Harry simply shrugged and looked away from her. In that moment, it certainly felt like it was true. He couldn't think of one choice he'd made over the school year that had resulted in a positive outcome. His blundering had alienated him from all of his friends, put Moody in danger, broken Hermione's heart, and now he most likely had pulled Sirius into the mess as well. At least he didn't care about the Malfoys; any ruin that Harry's campaign brought unto them would be deserved, in his mind.

"I'm just tired," Harry said at last, choosing to keep his thoughts to himself. "I'll feel better in the morning."

"I could make you feel better right now," Death said, turning to look at Harry with those big, unsettling eyes of hers. "But only if you want me to."

Harry looked at her for a long time. She was beautiful, in an ethereal sort of way. Delicate like a porcelain doll, otherworldly and cold. The memory of the kiss she'd given him replayed in his mind, cool and rejuvenating and exciting, in its own way. He couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to take her in his arms, lose himself to her the way he'd lost himself to Fleur. She was still watching him, waiting for an answer, and at last Harry nodded.

Death stood slowly, her incorporeal wings spreading as her hands lifted to the fasteners of her dress. It fell away easily, revealing the entirety of her body to him for the first time. She was pale and slender, and the gentle curves of her bust and hips drew Harry's eyes immediately. She took her time crossing the space to where Harry sat, eyes cast at her feet demurely. She wore a small smile when she lifted her gaze to meet his.

"Do you like my body?" She asked, and Harry could hear the uncertainty in her voice. "I...I can change it, if you want me to."

"No," Harry said quickly, "I mean - yes. I like it. You're beautiful."

"Do you mean that?" Death asked, the smile on her face growing a fraction.

"Of course I do," Harry said. He couldn't take his eyes off of her.

With a smile as bright and radiant as the sun itself, Death drew closer. Moving with a painstaking slowness, she climbed into Harry's lap and straddled his waist. Without thought, his hands were on her waist. Her skin was cool and smooth as Harry ran his hands over her curves. Hel let out a wordless, needy sigh as she pressed herself into him, her face wearing a mingled expression of surprise and eagerness.

"I've never done this before," Death said, leaning in to breathe the words against Harry's neck.

"That's alright," Harry said, his hands firm on her waist as he pulled her in tighter. "I'll show you how."

Death pulled back, just for a moment, her eyes searching Harry's face for something that only she could see. Her lips were parted, her chest heaving with anticipation - it was all too much. He needed her in that moment, and with one hand he reached up to pull her down and take her. The kiss was much as he remembered it - the moment her cool lips pressed against his, he could feel that curious, rejuvenating energy pour through him. Yet this time it had another effect - it ignited something within him, an urgent desire that only she could fulfill.

"What if someone sees us?" Harry asked breathlessly when she had pulled back.

"No one will," she said firmly. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she watched him.

"Good," Harry said, and he tugged her down on top of him once more.

Being with Hermione had been like going home - it was familiar and intimate, safe and comforting in her arms. Fleur was passion personified, the embodiment of a burning desire that had left Harry desperate to fulfill. Death was...different. Wrapped up in her embrace he felt like he was floating, straddling a line between consciousness and oblivion that left him feeling almost dazed. He felt like he was floating, lifted up by waves of pleasure.

When Harry was spent, he lay curled up with Death on the soft rug before the fire. She was tucked beneath his arm with her head pillowed on his chest and her wings folded over them both like a blanket. Harry felt more awake and full of energy than he had in weeks. Everything about him seemed to buzz with energy, a sort of energy that snapped with urgency. One that wanted to be released.

"I feel...different." Harry said after a moment. His voice seemed shockingly loud in the deserted common room.

"Of course you do," Death said, tipping her chin up to look at him with a small, mysterious smile.

"Why, though?" Harry asked with a frown. "I...I don't know, I feel like I'm about to burst with energy."

"We shared each other," Death said simply, laying her head back down on Harry's chest. "You gave me some of you, and I gave you some of me. Some of my power."

"Power?" Harry asked.

"It won't last forever," she said with a shrug. "But since we were...close...you might find that you can do things now that you couldn't before."

"I see... " Harry said, considering her words carefully. "And what did I give you?"

"You gave me this," she said with a contented sigh, snuggling a bit closer to him.

Nothing had really changed about Harry's situation, but the next morning at breakfast was the first time he'd felt positive in weeks. He sat alone, of course. The other students didn't really know what was going on, but it was enough that Ron and Hermione both had stopped talking to Harry. Still, it didn't bother him - he sat feeding bits of bacon to Sarchanie, hissing to her quietly as they shared their meal.

Harry was so wrapped up in his good cheer with Sarchanie that he completely failed to notice Draco sidling up behind him.

"My father wants to talk to you, Potter." The blonde-haired boy's sneer had lost some of its potency, but it was still there. "After the governor's meeting - tonight."

"What about?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Don't know," Malfoy said with a shrug. "Guess you'll have to find out for yourself."

Harry watched him go with a frown; he should have felt anxious at the prospect of meeting with Lucius Malfoy again, but in truth he was eager. He wanted to know if he would have the support of the former death eaters, or if he would have to look for help elsewhere. Knowing one way or another would be better than the constant wondering.

Harry sighed. He still had a full day of classes to get through before he would have his answer.

The day crawled by with an agonizing slowness that seemed designed to torture Harry. The closer the hour of his meeting with Lucius drew, the more anxious Harry became - until at last he found himself sitting in the library, ostensibly studying for his Potions exam but instead staring at the clock, willing it to go faster. Yet despite his constant vigil, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the clock struck eight o'clock and signaled the end of the governor's meeting.

Harry made his way to the meeting room with his bag slung over one shoulder and his heart in his throat. Only then did it occur to him that it might be a trap; yet as soon as that notion entered his mind, he dismissed it. Harry doubted very much that Malfoy would lay a finger on him inside of Hogwarts - his reputation was far too important to him.

Still, as he turned the handle and stepped into the room, it occurred to Harry that no one else know that this meeting was even taking place.

"Hello, Harry." Lucius smiled that thin-lipped smile of his and gestured to the seat across from him. "Please, sit down."

Harry did as instructed, slowly lowering himself into the red-cushioned chair oppsite the white-haired wizard. Malfoy looked as smug as ever, one gloved hand gripping the head of his cane - yet in his eyes, Harry saw something that he'd never seen before. Fear.

"I'll keep this brief, Harry." Malfoy cleared his throat. "But first I must ask you a question. What are you willing to do to win this little war of yours? How far are you willing to go to protect the wizarding world?"

"I'll do whatever it takes," Harry said without hesitation.

"Good," Lucius said, but he didn't look particularly pleased. A moment later when he spoke again, Harry found out why.

"Lord Voldemort wants to meet with you."


End file.
